The campaign of 1856 created an excitement in our village which
had never been known since the Revolutionary War. The old
families who had been settled there since colonial days were
mainly pro-slavery and Democratic, while the Republican party was
recruited very largely from New England men and in a minority.
Several times in our national political campaigns there has been
one orator who drew audiences and received public attention and
reports in the newspapers beyond all other speakers. On the
Democratic side during that period Horatio Seymour was pre-eminent.
On the Republican side in the State of New York the attractive
figure was George William Curtis. His books were very popular,
his charming personality, the culture and the elevation of his
speeches put him in a class by himself.
The Republicans of the village were highly elated when they had
secured the promise of Mr. Curtis to speak at their most important
mass meeting. The occasion drew together the largest audience
the village had known, composed not only of residents but many from
a distance. The committee of arrangements finally reported to
the waiting audience that the last train had arrived, but
Mr. Curtis had not come.
It suddenly occurred to the committee that it would be a good
thing to call a young recruit from a well-known Democratic family
and publicly commit him. First came the invitation, then the
shouting, and when I arose they cried "platform," and I was
escorted to the platform, but had no idea of making a speech.
My experience for years at college and at home had saturated me
with the questions at issue in all their aspects. From a full
heart, and a sore one, I poured out a confession of faith.
I thought I had spoken only a few minutes, but found afterwards
that it was over an hour. The local committee wrote to the State
committee about the meeting, and in a few days I received a letter
from the chairman of the State committee inviting me to fill
a series of engagements covering the whole State of New York.
The campaign of 1856 differed from all others in memory of men
then living. The issues between the parties appealed on the
Republican side to the young. There had grown up among the young
voters an intense hostility to slavery. The moral force of the
arguments against the institution captured them. They had no
hostility to the South, nor to the Southern slaveholders; they
regarded their position as an inheritance, and were willing to
help on the lines of Mr. Lincoln's original idea of purchasing
the slaves and freeing them. But the suggestion had no friends
among the slaveholders. These young men believed that any
extension or strengthening of the institution would be disastrous
to the country. The threatened dissolution of the Union, secession,
or rebellion did not frighten them.
Political conventions are the most interesting of popular gatherings.
The members have been delegated by their fellow citizens to
represent them, and they are above the average in intelligence,
political information of conditions in the State and nation, as
the convention represents the State or the republic. The belief
that they are generally boss-governed is a mistake. The party
leader, sometimes designated as boss, invariably consults with
the strongest men there are in the convention before he arrives
at a decision. He is generally successful, because he has so well
prepared the way, and his own judgment is always modified and
frequently changed in these conferences.
In 1858 I had the first sensation of the responsibility of public
office. I was not an applicant for the place; in fact, knew
nothing about it until I was elected a delegate to the Republican
State convention from the third assembly district of Westchester
County. The convention was held at Syracuse. The Westchester
delegates arrived late at night or, rather, early in the morning,
and we came to the hotel with large numbers of other delegates
from different sections who had arrived on the same train. It was
two o'clock, but the State leader, Thurlow Weed, was in the lobby
of the hotel to greet the delegates. He said to me: "You are
from Peekskill. With whom are you studying law?" I answered:
"With Judge William Nelson." "Oh," he remarked, "I remember
Judge Nelson well. He was very active in the campaign of 1828."
It was a feat of memory to thus recall the usefulness of a local
politician thirty years before. I noticed, as each delegate was
introduced, that Mr. Weed had some neighborhood recollections
of the man which put a tag on him.
The next day, as we met the leader, he recalled us by name, the
places where we lived, and the districts represented. Mr. Blaine
was the only other man I ever met or knew who possessed this
extraordinary gift for party leadership.
There was a revolt in the convention among the young members,
who had a candidate of their own. Mr. Weed's candidate for
governor was Edwin D. Morgan, a successful New York merchant,
who had made a good record as a State senator. I remember one
of Mr. Weed's arguments was that the Democrats were in power
everywhere and could assess their office-holders, while the
Republicans would have to rely for campaign funds upon voluntary
contributions, which would come nowhere so freely as from Mr. Morgan
and his friends. When the convention met Mr. Weed had won over
a large majority of the delegates for his candidate. It was
a triumph not only of his skill but of his magnetism, which were
always successfully exerted upon a doubtful member.
I was elected to the assembly, the popular branch of the New York
Legislature, in 1861. I was nominated during an absence from
the State, without being a candidate or knowing of it until my
return. Of course, I could expect nothing from my father, and
my own earnings were not large, so I had to rely upon a personal
canvass of a district which had been largely spoiled by rich
candidates running against each other and spending large amounts
of money. I made a hot canvass, speaking every day, and with
an investment of less than one hundred dollars for travel and
other expenses I was triumphantly elected.
By far the most interesting member of the legislature was the
speaker, Henry J. Raymond. He was one of the most remarkable
men I ever met. During the session I became intimate with him,
and the better I knew him the more I became impressed with his
genius, the variety of his attainments, the perfection of his
equipment, and his ready command of all his powers and resources.
Raymond was then editor of the New York Times and contributed
a leading article every day. He was the best debater we had
and the most convincing. I have seen him often, when some other
member was in the chair of the committee of the whole, and we were
discussing a critical question, take his seat on the floor and
commence writing an editorial. As the debate progressed, he would
rise and participate. When he had made his point, which he always
did with directness and lucidity, he would resume writing his
editorial. The debate would usually end with Mr. Raymond carrying
his point and also finishing his editorial, an example which seems
to refute the statement of metaphysicians that two parts of the mind
cannot work at the same time.
Two years afterwards, when I was secretary of state, I passed much
of my time at Saratoga, because it was so near Albany. Mr. Raymond
was also there writing the "Life of Abraham Lincoln." I breakfasted
with him frequently and found that he had written for an hour or
more before breakfast. He said to me in explanation that if one
would take an hour before breakfast every morning and concentrate
his mind upon his subject, he would soon fill a library.
Mr. Raymond had been as a young man a reporter in the United States
Senate. He told me that, while at that time there was no system
of shorthand or stenography, he had devised a crude one for
himself, by which he could take down accurately any address of
a deliberate speaker.
Daniel Webster, the most famous orator our country has ever
produced, was very deliberate in his utterances. He soon discovered
Raymond's ability, and for several years he always had Raymond
with him, and once said to him: "Except for you, the world would
have very few of my speeches. Your reports have preserved them."
Mr. Raymond told me this story of Mr. Webster's remarkable memory.
Once he said to Mr. Webster: "You never use notes and apparently
have made no preparation, yet you are the only speaker I report
whose speeches are perfect in structure, language, and rhetoric.
How is this possible?" Webster replied: "It is my memory. I can
prepare a speech, revise and correct it in my memory, and then
deliver the corrected speech exactly as finished." I have known
most of the great orators of the world, but none had any approach
to a faculty like this, though several could repeat after second
reading the speech which they had prepared.
In 1862 I was candidate for re-election to the assembly. Political
conditions had so changed that they were almost reversed. The
enthusiasm of the war which had carried the Republicans into power
the year before had been succeeded by general unrest. Our armies
had been defeated, and industrial and commercial depression
was general.
The leader of the Democratic Party in the State was Dean Richmond.
He was one of those original men of great brain-power, force, and
character, knowledge of men, and executive ability, of which that
period had a number. From the humblest beginning he had worked
his way in politics to the leadership of his party, to the presidency
of the greatest corporation in the State, the New York Central
Railroad Company, and in his many and successful adventures
had accumulated a fortune. His foresight was almost a gift of
prophecy, and his judgment was rarely wrong. He believed that
the disasters in the field and the bad times at home could be
charged up to the Lincoln administration and lead to a Democratic
victory. He also believed that there was only one man in the party
whose leadership would surely win, and that man was Horatio Seymour.
But Seymour had higher ambitions than the governorship of New York
and was very reluctant to run. Nevertheless, he could not resist
Richmond's insistence that he must sacrifice himself, if necessary,
to save the party.
The Republicans nominated General James W. Wadsworth for governor.
Wadsworth had enlisted at the beginning of the war and made a most
brilliant record, both as a fighting soldier and administrator.
The Republican party was sharply divided between radicals who
insisted on immediate emancipation of the slaves, and conservatives
who thought the time had not yet arrived for such a revolution.
The radicals were led by Horace Greeley, and the conservatives
by Thurlow Weed and Henry J. Raymond.
Horatio Seymour made a brilliant canvass. He had no equal in the
State in either party in charm of personality and attractive
oratory. He united his party and brought to its ranks all the
elements of unrest and dissatisfaction with conditions, military
and financial. While General Wadsworth was an ideal candidate,
he failed to get the cordial and united support of his party.
He represented its progressive tendencies as expressed and
believed by President Lincoln, and was hostile to reaction.
Under these conditions Governor Seymour carried the State.
The election had reversed the overwhelming Republican majority
in the legislature of the year before by making the assembly a tie.
I was re-elected, but by reduced majority. The assembly being
a tie, it was several weeks before it could organize. I was the
candidate in the caucus of the Republican members for speaker,
but after the nomination one of the members, named Bemus, threatened
to bolt and vote for the Democratic candidate unless his candidate,
Sherwood, was made the nominee. So many believed that Bemus
would carry out his threat, which would give the organization of
the House to the Democrats by one majority, that I withdrew in
favor of Sherwood. After voting hopelessly in a deadlock, day
after day for a long period, a caucus of the Republican members
was called, at which Sherwood withdrew, and on his motion I was
nominated as the party candidate for speaker.
During the night a Democratic member, T.C. Callicot, of Kings County,
came to my bedroom and said: "My ambition in life is to be speaker
of the assembly. Under the law the legislature cannot elect
the United States senator unless each House has first made a
nomination, then the Senate and the House can go into joint
convention, and a majority of that convention elect a senator.
You Republicans have a majority in the Senate, so that if the
House nominates, the legislature can go into joint convention
and elect a Republican senator. As long as the House remains
a tie this cannot be done. Now, what I propose is just this:
Before we meet tomorrow morning, if you will call your members
together and nominate me for speaker, the vote of your party and
I voting for myself will elect me. Then I will agree to name
General Dix, a Democrat, for United States senator, and if your
people will all vote with me for him he will be the assembly
nominee. The Senate has already nominated Governor Morgan.
So the next day the legislature can go into joint convention and,
having a Republican majority, elect Governor Morgan United States
senator." I told Mr. Callicot that I would present the matter
to my party associates.
In the early morning Saxton Smith and Colonel John Van Buren,
two of the most eminent Democrats in the State and members of
the legislature, came to me and said: "We know what Callicot
has proposed. Now, if you will reject that proposition we will
elect you speaker practically unanimously."
This assured my election for the speakership. I had a great
ambition to be on that roll of honor, and as I would have been
the youngest man ever elected to the position, my youth added
to the distinction. On the other hand, the government at Washington
needed an experienced senator of its own party, like Edwin D. Morgan,
who had been one of the ablest and most efficient of war governors,
both in furnishing troops and helping the credit of the country.
I finally decided to surrender the speakership for myself to gain
the senatorship for my party. I had difficulty in persuading my
associates, but they finally agreed. Callicot was elected speaker
and Edwin D. Morgan United States senator.
The event was so important and excited so much interest, both in
the State and in the country, that representative men came to
Albany in great numbers. The rejoicing and enthusiasm were intense
at having secured so unexpectedly a United States Senator for
the support of Mr. Lincoln's administration.
That night they all united in giving me a reception in the ballroom
of the hotel. There was a flood of eulogistic and prophetic
oratory. I was overwhelmed with every form of flattery and
applause, for distinguished service to the party. By midnight
I had been nominated and elected Governor of the State, and an hour
later I was already a United States senator. Before the morning
hour the presidency of the United States was impatiently waiting
for the time when I would be old enough to be eligible. All this
was soon forgotten. It is a common experience of the instability
of promises and hopes which come from gratified and happy
enthusiasts, and how soon they are dissipated like a dream! I have
seen many such instances, and from this early experience deeply
sympathize with the disillusionized hero.
The Democrats of the assembly and also of the State were determined
that Mr. Callicot should not enjoy the speakership. They started
investigations in the House and movements in the courts to prevent
him from taking his seat. The result was that I became acting
speaker and continued as such until Mr. Callicot had defeated
his enemies and taken his place as speaker in the latter part of
the session.
I was also chairman of the committee of ways and means and the
leader of the House. The budget of my committee was larger than
usual on account of the expenses of the war. It was about seven
million dollars. It created much more excitement and general
discussion than does the present budget of one hundred and forty
millions. The reason is the difference in conditions and public
necessities of the State of New York in the winter of 1863 and
now. It is also partly accounted for by the fact that the expenses
of the State had then to be met by a real-estate tax which affected
everybody, while now an income tax has been adopted which is
capable of unlimited expansion and invites limitless extravagance
because of the comparatively few interested.
Eighteen hundred and sixty-three was an eventful year; the early
part was full of gloom and unrest. Horatio Seymour, as governor,
violently antagonized President Lincoln and his policies. Seymour
was patriotic and very able, but he was so saturated with State
rights and strict construction of the Constitution that it marred
his judgment and clouded his usually clear vision. In the critical
situation of the country Mr. Lincoln saw the necessity of support
of the State of New York. The president said: "The governor has
greater power just now for good than any other man in the country.
He can wheel the Democratic party into line, put down the rebellion
and preserve the government. Tell him from me that if he will
render this service to his country, I shall cheerfully make way
for him as my successor." To this message, sent through
Thurlow Weed, Governor Seymour made no reply. He did not believe
that the South could be defeated and the Union preserved.
Later President Lincoln sent a personal letter to the governor.
It was a very human epistle. The president wrote: "You and I
are substantially strangers, and I write this that we may become
better acquainted. In the performance of duty the co-operation
of your State is needed and is indispensable. This alone is
sufficient reason why I should wish to be on a good understanding
with you. Please write me at least as long a letter as this,
of course saying in it just what you think fit."
Governor Seymour made no reply. He and the other Democratic
leaders thought the president uncouth, unlettered, and very weak.
The phrase "please write me at least as long a letter as this"
produced an impression upon the scholarly, cultured, cautious,
and diplomatic Seymour which was most unfavorable to its author.
Seymour acknowledged the receipt of the letter and promised to
make a reply, but never did.
Seymour's resentment was raised to fever heat when General Burnside,
in May, 1863, arrested Clement L. Vallandigham. The enemies of
the war and peace at any price people, and those who were
discouraged, called mass meetings all over the country to protest
this arrest as an outrage. A mass meeting was called in Albany
on the 16th of May. Erastus Corning, one of the most eminent
Democrats in the State, presided.
I was in Albany at the time and learned this incident. One of
Governor Seymour's intimate friends, his adviser and confidant
in personal business affairs was Charles Cook, who had been
comptroller of the State and a State senator. Cook was an active
Republican, a very shrewd and able man. He called on the governor
and tried to persuade him not to write a letter to the Vallandigham
meeting, but if he felt he must say something, attend the meeting
and make a speech. Cook said: "Governor, the country is going
to sustain ultimately the arrest of Vallandigham. It will be proved
that he is a traitor to the government and a very dangerous man
to be at large. Whatever is said at the meeting will seriously
injure the political future of the authors. If you write a letter
it will be on record, so I beg you, if you must participate, attend
the meeting and make a speech. A letter cannot be denied; it can
always be claimed that a speech has been misreported."
The Governor wrote the letter, one of the most violent of his
utterances, and it was used against him with fatal effect when
he ran for governor, and also when a candidate for president.
On July 11th the draft began in New York City. It had been
denounced as unconstitutional by every shade of opposition to
Mr. Lincoln's administration and to the prosecution of the war.
The attempt to enforce it led to one of the most serious riots
in the history of the city, and the rage of the rioters was against
the officers of the law, the headquarters of the draft authorities,
and principally against the negroes. Every negro who was caught
was hung or burned, and the negro orphan asylum was destroyed
by fire. The governor did his best to stop the rioting. He issued
a proclamation declaring the city in a state of insurrection, and
commanded obedience to the law and the authorities.
In this incident again the governor permitted his opposition to
the war to lead him into political indiscretion. He made a speech
from the steps of the City Hall to the rioters. He began by
addressing them as "My friends." The governor's object was to
quiet the mob and send them to their homes. So instead of saying
"fellow citizens" he used the fatal words "my friends." No two
words were ever used against a public man with such fatal effect.
Every newspaper opposed to the governor and every orator would
describe the horrors, murders, and destruction of property by
the mob and then say: "These are the people whom Governor Seymour
in his speech from the steps of the City Hall addressed as
'my friends.'"
The Vallandigham letter and this single utterance did more harm
to Governor Seymour's future ambitions than all his many eloquent
speeches against Lincoln's administration and the conduct of the war.
The political situation, which had been so desperate for the
national administration, changed rapidly for the better with
the victory at Gettysburg, which forced General Lee out of
Pennsylvania and back into Virginia, and also by General Grant's
wonderful series of victories at Vicksburg and other places which
liberated the Mississippi River.
Under these favorable conditions the Republicans entered upon
the canvass in the fall of 1863 to reverse, if possible, the
Democratic victory the year before. The Republican State ticket was:
Secretary of State ..... Chauncey M. Depew.
Comptroller ..... Lucius Robinson.
Canal Commissioner ..... Benjamin F. Bruce.
Treasurer ..... George W. Schuyler.
State Engineer ..... William B. Taylor.
Prison Inspector ..... James K. Bates.
Judge of the Court of Appeals ..... Henry S. Selden.
Attorney-General ..... John Cochran.
The canvass was one of the most interesting of political campaigns.
The president was unusually active, and his series of letters
were remarkable documents. He had the ear of the public; he
commanded the front page of the press, and he defended his
administration and its acts and replied to his enemies with skill,
tact, and extreme moderation.
Public opinion was peculiar. Military disasters and increasing
taxation had made the position of the administration very critical,
but the victories which came during the summer changed the situation.
I have never known in any canvass any one incident which had
greater effect than Sheridan's victory in the Shenandoah Valley,
and never an adventure which so captured the popular imagination
as his ride from Washington to the front; his rallying the retreating
and routed troops, reforming them and turning defeat into victory.
The poem "Sheridan's Ride," was recited in every audience, from
every platform, and from the stage in many theatres and created
the wildest enthusiasm.
My friend, Wayne MacVeagh, who was at Yale College with me,
had succeeded as a radical leader in defeating his brother-in-law,
Don Cameron, and getting control for the first time in a generation
against the Cameron dynasty of the Republican State organization
of Pennsylvania. He had nominated a radical ticket, with
Andrew G. Curtin as a candidate for governor.
MacVeagh wrote to me, saying: "You are running at the head of
the Republican ticket in New York. Your battle is to be won
in Pennsylvania, and unless we succeed you cannot. Come over
and help us."
I accepted the invitation and spent several most exciting and
delightful weeks campaigning with Governor Curtin and his party.
The meetings were phenomenal in the multitudes which attended
and their interest in the speeches. I remember one dramatic
occasion at the city of Reading. This was a Democratic stronghold;
there was not a single Republican office-holder in the county.
The only compensation for a Republican accepting a nomination
and conducting a canvass, with its large expenses and certain
defeat, was that for the rest of his life he was given as an
evidence of honor the title of the office for which he ran, and so
the county was full of "judges, Mr. District Attorneys, State
Senators, and Congressmen" who had never been elected.
We arrived at Reading after midday. The leading street, a very
broad one, was also on certain days the market-place. A friend
of the governor, who had a handsome house on this street, had
the whole party for luncheon. The luncheon was an elaborate
banquet. Governor Curtin came to me and said: "You go out and
entertain the crowd, which is getting very impatient, and in about
twenty minutes I will send some one to relieve you." It was
raining in torrents; the crowd shouted to me encouragingly: "Never
mind the rain; we are used to that, but we never heard you." As
I would try to stop they would shout: "Go ahead!" In the meantime
the banquet had turned into a festive occasion, with toasts and
speeches. I had been speaking over two hours before the governor
and his party appeared. They had been dining, and the Eighteenth
Amendment had not been dreamed of. I was drenched to the skin,
but waited until the governor had delivered his twenty-minute
speech; then, without stopping for the other orators, I went over
to the house, stripped, dried myself, and went to bed.
Utterly exhausted with successive days and nights of this experience,
I did not wake until about eight o'clock in the evening. Then
I wandered out in the street, found the crowd still there, and
the famous John W. Forney making a speech. They told me that
he had been speaking for four hours, delivering an historical address,
but had only reached the administration of General Jackson. I never
knew how long he kept at it, but there was a tradition with our party
that he was still speaking when the train left the next morning.
Governor Curtin was an ideal party leader and candidate. He was
one of the handsomest men of his time, six feet four inches in
height, perfectly proportioned and a superb figure. He never
spoke over twenty minutes, but it was the talk in the familiar
way of an expert to his neighbors. He had a cordial and captivating
manner, which speedily made him the idol of the crowd and a most
agreeable companion in social circles. When he was minister
to Russia, the Czar, who was of the same height and build, was
at once attracted to him, and he took a first place among the
diplomats in influence.
When I returned to New York to enter upon my own canvass, the State
and national committees imposed upon me a heavy burden. Speakers
of State reputation were few, while the people were clamoring for
meetings. Fortunately I had learned how to protect my voice. In
the course of the campaign every one who spoke with me lost his
voice and had to return home for treatment. When I was a student
at Yale the professor in elocution was an eccentric old gentleman
named North. The boys paid little attention to him and were
disposed to ridicule his peculiarities. He saw that I was specially
anxious to learn and said: "The principal thing about oratory
is to use your diaphragm instead of your throat." His lesson
on that subject has been of infinite benefit to me all my life.
The programme laid out called upon me to speak on an average
between six and seven hours a day. The speeches were from ten
to thirty minutes at different railway stations, and wound up with
at least two meetings at some important towns in the evening,
and each meeting demanded about an hour. These meetings were
so arranged that they covered the whole State. It took about four
weeks, but the result of the campaign, due to the efforts of the
orators and other favorable conditions, ended in the reversal
of the Democratic victory of the year before, a Republican majority
of thirty thousand and the control of the legislature.
In 1864 the political conditions were very unfavorable for the
Republican party, owing to the bitter hostility between the
conservative and radical elements. Led by such distinguished men
as Thurlow Weed and Henry J. Raymond, on the one side, and
Horace Greeley, with an exceedingly capable body of earnest
lieutenants on the other, the question of success or defeat depended
upon the harmonizing of the two factions.
Without having been recognized by the politicians or press of
the State, Reuben E. Fenton, who had been for ten years a congressman
from the Chatauqua district, had developed in Congress remarkable
ability as an organizer. He had succeeded in making Galusha A. Grow
speaker of the House of Representatives, and had become a power
in that body. He had behind him the earnest friendship and support
of the New York delegation in the House of Representatives and had
not incurred the enmity of either faction in his own State. His
nomination saved the party in that campaign.
As an illustration how dangerous was the situation, though the
soldiers' vote in the field was over one hundred thousand and
almost unanimously for the Republican ticket, the presidential and
gubernatorial candidates received less than eight thousand
majority, the governor leading the president.
The re-election of Mr. Lincoln and the election Reuben E. Fenton
over Governor Seymour made our State solidly Republican, and
Governor Fenton became at once both chief executive and party
leader. He had every quality for political leadership, was a shrewd
judge of character, and rarely made mistakes in the selection
of his lieutenants. He was a master of all current political
questions and in close touch with public opinion. My official
relations with him as secretary of state became came at once
intimate and gratifying. It required in after-years all the
masterful genius of Roscoe Conkling and the control of federal
patronage granted to him by President Grant to break Fenton's
hold upon his party.
Governor Fenton was blessed with a daughter of wonderful executive
ability, singular charm, and knowledge of public affairs. She made
the Executive Mansion in Albany one of the most charming and
hospitable homes in the State. Its influence radiated everywhere,
captured visitors, legislators, and judges, and was a powerful
factor in the growing popularity and influence of the governor.
One of the most interesting of political gatherings was the
Democratic convention, which met at Tredwell Hall in Albany
in the fall of 1864, to select a successor to Governor Seymour.
The governor had declared publicly that he was not a candidate,
and that under no conditions would he accept a renomination. He
said that his health was seriously impaired, and his private affairs
had been neglected so long by his absorption in public duties
that they were in an embarrassing condition and needed attention.
The leaders of the convention met in Dean Richmond's office and
selected a candidate for governor and a full State ticket. When
the convention met the next day I was invited to be present as
a spectator. It was supposed by everybody that the proceedings
would be very formal and brief, as the candidates and the platform
had been agreed upon. The day was intensely hot, and most of
the delegates discarded their coats, vests, and collars, especially
those from New York City.
When the time came for the nomination, the platform was taken
by one of the most plausible and smooth talkers I ever heard.
He delivered a eulogy upon Governor Seymour and described in
glowing terms the debt the party owed him for his wonderful public
services, and the deep regret all must have that he felt it necessary
to retire to private life. He continued by saying that he acquiesced
in that decision, but felt it was due to a great patriot and
the benefactor of the party that he should be tendered a
renomination. Of course, they all knew it would be merely a
compliment, as the governor's position had been emphatically
stated by himself. So he moved that the governor be nominated by
acclamation and a committee appointed to wait upon him at the
Executive Mansion and ascertain his wishes.
When Mr. Richmond was informed of this action, he said it was
all right but unnecessary, because the situation was too serious
to indulge in compliments.
In an hour the delegation returned, and the chairman, who was
the same gentleman who made the speech and the motion, stepped
to the front of the platform to report. He said that the governor
was very grateful for the confidence reposed in him by the
convention, and especially for its approval of his official actions
as governor of the State and the representative of his party at
the national convention, that in his long and intense application
to public duties he had impaired his health and greatly embarrassed
his private affairs, but, but, he continued with emphasis. . . He
never got any further. Senator Shafer, of Albany, who was unfriendly
to the governor, jumped up and shouted: "Damn him, he has accepted!"
The convention, when finally brought to order, reaffirmed its
complimentary nomination as a real one, with great enthusiasm
and wild acclaim.
When the result was reported to Mr. Richmond at his office, I was
told by one who was present that Richmond's picturesque vocabulary
of indignation and denunciation was enriched to such a degree
as to astonish and shock even the hardened Democrats who listened
to the outburst.
A committee was appointed to wait on the governor and request him
to appear before the convention. In a little while there stepped
upon the platform the finest figure in the State or country.
Horatio Seymour was not only a handsome man, with a highly
intellectual and expressive face of mobile features, which added
to the effect of his oratory, but he never appeared unless perfectly
dressed and in the costume which was then universally regarded
as the statesman's apparel. His patent-leather boots, his
Prince Albert suit, his perfectly correct collar and tie were
evidently new, and this was their first appearance. From head to
foot he looked the aristocrat. In a few minutes he became the idol
of that wild and overheated throng. His speech was a model of
tact, diplomacy, and eloquence, with just that measure of restraint
which increased the enthusiasm of the hearers. The convention,
which had gathered for another purpose, another candidate, and
a new policy, hailed with delight its old and splendid leader.
Commodore Vanderbilt had a great admiration for Dean Richmond.
The commodore disliked boasters and braggarts intensely. Those
who wished to gain his favor made the mistake, as a rule, of boasting
about what they had done, and were generally met by the remark:
"That amounts to nothing." Mr. Tillinghast, a western New York man
and a friend of Richmond, was in the commodore's office one day,
soon after Richmond died. Tillinghast was general superintendent
of the New York Central and had been a sufferer from being stepped
on by the commodore when he was lauding his own achievements and
so took the opposite line of extreme moderation. The commodore
asked Tillinghast, after praising Mr. Richmond very highly, "How
much did he leave?" "Oh," said Tillinghast, "his estate is a
great disappointment, and compared with what it was thought to be
it is very little." "I am surprised," remarked the commodore,
"but how much?" "Oh, between five or six millions," Tillinghast
answered. For the first time in his life the commodore was thrown
off his guard and said: "Tillinghast, if five or six million
of dollars is a disappointment, what do you expect in western
New York?" At that time there were few men who were worth that
amount of money.
Governor Seymour made a thorough canvass of the State, and I was
appointed by our State committee to follow him. It was a singular
experience to speak and reply to the candidate the day after his
address. The local committee meets you with a very complete report
of his speech. The trouble is that, except you are under great
restraint, the urgency of the local committee and the inevitable
temptations of the reply under such conditions, when your adversary
is not present, will lead you to expressions and personalities which
you deeply regret.
When the canvass was over and the governor was beaten, I feared
that the pleasant relations which had existed between us were
broken. But he was a thorough sportsman. He sent for and received
me with the greatest cordiality, and invited me to spend a week-end
with him at his home in Utica. There he was the most delightful
of hosts and very interesting as a gentleman farmer. In the
costume of a veteran agriculturist and in the farm wagon he drove
me out mornings to his farm, which was so located that it could
command a fine view of the Mohawk Valley. After the inspection
of the stock, the crops, and buildings, the governor would spend
the day discoursing eloquently and most optimistically upon
the prosperity possible for the farmer. To his mind then the food
of the future was to be cheese. There was more food value
in cheese than in any known edible article, animal or vegetable.
It could sustain life more agreeably and do more for longevity
and health.
No one could have imagined, who did not know the governor and
was privileged to listen to his seemingly most practical and
highly imaginative discourse, that the speaker was one of the
ablest party managers, shrewdest of politicians, and most eloquent
advocates in the country, whose whole time and mind apparently
were absorbed in the success of his party and the fruition of
his own ambitions.
As we were returning home he said to me: "You have risen higher
than any young man in the country of your age. You have a talent
and taste for public life, but let me advise you to drop it and
devote yourself to your profession. Public life is full of
disappointments, has an unusual share of ingratitude, and its
compensations are not equal to its failures. The country is full
of men who have made brilliant careers in the public service and
then been suddenly dropped and forgotten. The number of such men
who have climbed the hill up State Street to the capitol in Albany,
with the applause of admiring crowds whom none now can recall,
would make a great army."
He continued by telling this story: "In the war of 1812 the
governor and the legislature decided to bring from Canada to
Albany the remains of a hero whose deeds had excited the admiration
of the whole State. There was an imposing and continuous
procession, with local celebrations all along the route, from
the frontier to the capital. The ceremonies in Albany were attended
by the governor, State officers, legislature, and judges, and the
remains were buried in the capitol park. No monument was erected.
The incident is entirely forgotten, no one remembers who the hero
was, what were his deeds, nor the spot where he rests."
Years afterwards, when the State was building a new capitol and
I was one of the commissioners, in excavating the grounds
a skeleton was found. It was undoubtedly the forgotten hero
of Governor Seymour's story.
When my term was about expiring with the year 1865 I decided
to leave public life and resume the practice of my profession.
I was at the crossroads of a political or a professional career.
So, while there was a general assent to my renomination, I
emphatically stated the conclusion at which I had arrived.
The Republican convention nominated for my successor as secretary
of state General Francis C. Barlow, a very brilliant soldier in
the Civil War. The Democratic convention adopted a patriotic
platform of advanced and progressive views, and nominated at the
head of their ticket for secretary of state General Henry W. Slocum.
General Slocum had been a corps commander in General Sherman's
army, and came out of the war among the first in reputation and
achievement of the great commanders. It was a master stroke on
the part of the Democratic leaders to place him at the head of
their ticket. He was the greatest soldier of our State and very
popular with the people. In addition to being a great commander,
he had a charming personality, which fitted him for success
in public life.
The Democrats also on the same ticket nominated for attorney-general
John Van Buren. He was a son of President Van Buren and a man
of genius. Although he was very erratic, his ability was so great
that when serious he captured not only the attention but the judgment
of people. He was an eloquent speaker and had a faculty of
entrancing the crowd with his wit and of characterization of his
opponent which was fatal. I have seen crowds, when he was
elaborately explaining details necessary for the vindication of his
position, or that of his party which did not interest them,
to remain with close attention, hoping for what was certain to come,
namely, one of those sallies of wit, which made a speech of
Van Buren a memorable thing to have listened to.
Van Buren was noted for a reckless disregard of the confidences
of private conversation. Once I was with him on the train for
several hours, and in the intimacy which exists among political
opponents who know and trust each other we exchanged views in
regard to public measures and especially public men. I was very
indiscreet in talking with him in my criticism of the leaders of
my own party, and he equally frank and delightful in flaying alive
the leaders of his party, especially Governor Seymour.
A few days afterwards he made a speech in which he detailed what
I had said, causing me the greatest embarrassment and trouble.
In retaliation I wrote a letter to the public, stating what he had
said about Governor Seymour. The Democratic ticket was beaten
by fifteen thousand in a very heavy vote, and Van Buren always
charged it to the resentment of Governor Seymour and his friends.
In our country public life is a most uncertain career for a young
man. Its duties and activities remove him from his profession or
business and impose habits of work and thought which unfit him
for ordinary pursuits, especially if he remains long in public
service. With a change of administration or of party popularity,
he may be at any time dropped and left hopelessly stranded.
On the other hand, if his party is in power he has in it a position
of influence and popularity. He has a host of friends, with many
people dependent upon him for their own places, and it is no easy
thing for him to retire.
When I had decided not to remain any longer in public life and
return home, the convention of my old district, which I had
represented in the legislature, renominated me for the old position
with such earnestness and affection that it was very difficult
to refuse and to persuade them that it was absolutely necessary
for me to resume actively my profession.
Our village of Peekskill, which has since grown into the largest
village in the State, with many manufacturing and other interests,
was then comparatively small. A large number of people gathered
at the post-office every morning. On one occasion when I arrived
I found them studying a large envelope addressed to me, which
the postmaster had passed around. It was a letter from
William H. Seward, secretary of state, announcing that the president
had appointed me United States minister to Japan, and that the
appointment had been sent to the Senate and confirmed by that
body, and directing that I appear at the earliest possible moment
at his office to receive instructions and go to my post. A few
days afterwards I received a beautiful letter from Henry J. Raymond,
then in Congress, urging my acceptance.
On arriving in Washington I went to see Mr. Seward, who said to me:
"I have special reasons for securing your appointment from the
president. He is rewarding friends of his by putting them in
diplomatic positions for which they are wholly unfit. I regard
the opening of Japan to commerce and our relations to that new
and promising country so important, that I asked the privilege
to select one whom I thought fitted for the position. Your youth,
familiarity with public life, and ability seem to me ideal for this
position, and I have no doubt you will accept."
I stated to him how necessary it was that after long neglect in
public life of my private affairs I should return to my profession,
if I was to make a career, but Mr. Seward brushed that aside by
reciting his own success, notwithstanding his long service in our
State and in Washington. "However," he continued, "I feared that
this might be your attitude, so I have made an appointment for you
to see Mr. Burlingame, who has been our minister to China, and
is now here at the head of a mission from China to the different
nations of the world."
Anson Burlingame's career had been most picturesque and had
attracted the attention of not only the United States but of
Europe. As a member of the House of Representatives he had
accepted the challenge of a "fire-eater," who had sent it under
the general view that no Northern man would fight. As minister
to China he had so gained the confidence of the Chinese Government
that he persuaded them to open diplomatic relations with the Western
world, and at their request he had resigned his position from
the United States and accepted the place of ambassador to the great
powers, and was at the head of a large delegation, composed of
the most important, influential, and representative mandarins of
the old empire.
When I sent up my card to his room at the hotel his answer was:
"Come up immediately." He was shaving and had on the minimum
of clothes permissible to receive a visitor. He was expecting me
and started in at once with an eloquent description of the attractions
and importance of the mission to Japan. With the shaving brush
in one hand and the razor in the other he delivered an oration.
In order to emphasize it and have time to think and enforce a new
idea, he would apply the brush and the razor vigorously, then pause
and resume. I cannot remember his exact words, but have a keen
recollection of the general trend of his argument.
He said: "I am surprised that a young man like you, unmarried
and with no social obligations, should hesitate for a moment
to accept this most important and attractive position. If you
think these people are barbarians, I can assure you that they
had a civilization and a highly developed literature when our
forefathers were painted savages. The western nations of Europe,
in order to secure advantages in this newly opened country for
commerce, have sent their ablest representatives. You will meet
there with the diplomats of all the western nations, and your
intimacy with them will be a university of the largest opportunity.
You will come in contact with the best minds of Europe. You can
make a great reputation in the keen rivalry of this situation
by securing the best of the trade of Japan for your own country
to its western coasts over the waters of the Pacific. You will
be welcomed by the Japanese Government and the minister of
foreign affairs will assign you a palace to live in, with a garden
attached so perfectly appointed and kept as to have been the envy
of Shenstone. You will be attended by hundreds of beautiful and
accomplished Japanese maidens."
When I repeated to a large body of waiting office-seekers who had
assembled in my room what Mr. Burlingame had said, they all became
applicants for the place.
There is no more striking evidence of the wonderful advance in
every way of the Japanese Empire and its people than the conditions
existing at that time and now. Then it took six months to reach
Japan and a year for the round trip. Of course, there was no
telegraphic or cable communication, and so it required a year
for a message to be sent and answered. The Japanese army at that
time was mostly clad in armor and its navy were junks.
In fifty years Japan has become one of the most advanced nations
of the world. It has adopted and assimilated all that is best of
Western civilization, and acquired in half a century what required
Europe one thousand years to achieve. Its army is unexcelled
in equipment and discipline, and its navy and mercantile marine are
advancing rapidly to a foremost place. It demonstrated its prowess
in the war with Russia, and its diplomacy and power in the recent war.
Japan has installed popular education, with common schools,
academies, and universities, much on the American plan. It has
adopted and installed every modern appliance developed by
electricity--telegraph, cable, telephone, etc.
While I was greatly tempted to reverse my decision and go,
my mother, who was in delicate health, felt that an absence so
long and at such distance would be fatal, and so on her account
I declined.
As I look back over the fifty years I can see plainly that four
years, and probably eight, in that mission would have severed
me entirely from all professional and business opportunities
at home, and I might have of necessity become a place holder
and a place seeker, with all its adventures and disappointments.
If I had seriously wanted an office and gone in pursuit of one,
my pathway would have had the usual difficulties, but fickle
fortune seemed determined to defeat my return to private life
by tempting offers. The collectorship of the port of New York
was vacant. It was a position of great political power because
of its patronage. There being no civil service, the appointments
were sufficiently numerous and important to largely control the
party in the State of New York, and its political influence reached
into other commonwealths. It was an office whose fees were
enormous, and the emoluments far larger than those of any position
in the country.
The party leaders had begun to doubt President Johnson, and they
wanted in the collectorship a man in whom they had entire
confidence, and so the governor and State officers, who were all
Republicans, the Republican members of the legislature, the State
committee, the two United States senators, and the Republican
delegation of New York in the House of Representatives unanimously
requested the president to appoint me.
President Johnson said to me: "No such recommendation and
indorsement has ever been presented to me before." However,
the breach between him and the party was widening, and he could
not come to a decision.
One day he suddenly sent for Senator Morgan, Henry J. Raymond,
Thurlow Weed, and the secretary of the treasury for a consultation.
He said to them: "I have decided to appoint Mr. Depew." The
appointment was made out by the secretary of the treasury, and the
president instructed him to send it to the Senate the next morning.
There was great rejoicing among the Republicans, as this seemed
to indicate a favorable turn in the president's mind. Days and
weeks passed, however, and when the veto of the Civil Rights Bill
was overridden in the Senate and, with the help of the votes
of the senators from New York, the breach between the president
and his party became irreconcilable, the movement for his
impeachment began, which ended in the most sensational and perilous
trial in our political history.
On my way home to New York, after the vote of the New York senators
had ended my hope for appointment, I had as a fellow traveller
my friend, Professor Davies, from West Point. He was a brother
of that eminent jurist, Henry E. Davies, a great lawyer and
chief justice of our New York State Court of Appeals. Professor
Davies said to me: "I think I must tell you why your nomination
for collector was not sent to the Senate. I was in Washington
to persuade the president, with whom I am quite intimate, to make
another appointment. I was calling on Secretary Hugh McCulloch
and his family in the evening of the day when the conference decided
to appoint you. Secretary McCulloch said to me: 'The contest
over the collectorship of the port of New York is settled, and
Chauncey Depew's name will be sent to the Senate to-morrow
morning.' I was at the White House," continued the professor,
"the next morning before breakfast. The president received me
at once because I said my mission was urgent and personal. I told
him what the secretary of the treasury had told me and said:
'You are making a fatal mistake. You are going to break with
your party and to have a party of your own. The collectorship
of the port of New York is the key to your success. Depew is
very capable and a partisan of his party. If you have any doubt,
I beg of you to withhold the appointment until the question
comes up in the Senate of sustaining or overriding of the veto
of the Civil Rights Bill. The votes of the two New York senators
will decide whether they are your friends or not.' The president
thought that was reasonable, and you know the result."
There was at least one satisfaction in the professor's amazingly
frank revelation: it removed all doubt why I had lost a great
office and, for my age and circumstances, a large fortune.
President Andrew Johnson differed radically from any President
of the United States whom it has been my good fortune to know.
This refers to all from and including Mr. Lincoln to Mr. Harding.
A great deal must be forgiven and a great deal taken by way of
explanation when we consider his early environment and opportunities.
In the interviews I had with him he impressed me as a man of
vigorous mentality, of obstinate wilfulness, and overwhelming
confidence in his own judgment and the courage of his convictions.
His weakness was alcoholism. He made a fearful exhibition of
himself at the time of his inauguration and during the presidency,
and especially during his famous trip "around the circle" he
was in a bad way.
He was of humble origin and, in fact, very poor. It is said of him
that he could neither read nor write until his wife taught him.
He made a great career both as a member of the House of Representatives
and a senator, and was of unquestionable influence in each branch.
With reckless disregard for his life, he kept east Tennessee
in the Union during the Civil War.
General Grant told me a story of his own experience with him.
Johnson, he said, had always been treated with such contempt
and ignored socially by the members of the old families and slave
aristocracy of the South that his resentment against them was
vindictive, and so after the surrender at Appomattox he was
constantly proclaiming "Treason is odious and must be punished."
He also wanted and, in fact, insisted upon ignoring Grant's parole
to the Confederate officers, in order that they might be tried
for treason. On this question of maintaining his parole and
his military honor General Grant was inflexible, and said he would
appeal not only to Congress but to the country.
One day a delegation, consisting of the most eminent, politically,
socially, and in family descent, of the Southern leaders, went to
the White House. They said: "Mr. President, we have never
recognized you, as you belong to an entirely different class
from ourselves, but it is the rule of all countries and in all ages
that supreme power vested in the individual raises him, no matter
what his origin, to supreme leadership. You are now President
of the United States, and by virtue of your office our leader,
and we recognize you as such." Then followed attention from
these people whom he admired and envied, as well as hated,
of hospitality and deference, of which they were past masters.
It captivated him and changed his whole attitude towards them.
He sent for General Grant and said to him: "The war is over
and there should be forgiveness and reconciliation. I propose
to call upon all of the States recently in rebellion to send
to Washington their United States senators and members of the House,
the same as they did before the war. If the present Congress
will not admit them, a Congress can be formed of these Southern
senators and members of the House and of such Northern senators
and representatives as will believe that I am right and acting
under the Constitution. As President of the United States, I will
recognize that Congress and communicate with them as such.
As general of the army I want your support." General Grant replied:
"That will create civil war, because the North will undoubtedly
recognize the Congress as it now exists, and that Congress will
assert itself in every way possible." "In that case," said the
president, "I want the to support the constitutional Congress
which I am recognizing." General Grant said: "On the contrary,
so far as my authority goes, the army will support the Congress
as it is now and disperse the other." President Johnson then
ordered General Grant to Mexico on a mission, and as he had
no power to send a general of the army out of the United States,
Grant refused to go.
Shortly afterwards Grant received a very confidential communication
from General Sherman, stating that he had been ordered to Washington
to take command of the army, and wanted to know what it meant.
General Grant explained the situation, whereupon General Sherman
announced to the president that he would take exactly the same
position as General Grant had. The president then dropped
the whole subject.