The appointed hour found me at the well-remembered door of the official
chamber,--that door watched daily, with so many conflicting emotions
of hope and fear, by the anxious throng regularly gathered there. The
President had preceded me, and was already deep in Acts of Congress,
with which the writing-desk was strewed, awaiting his signature. He
received me pleasantly, giving me a seat near his own arm-chair; and
after having read Mr. Lovejoy’s note, he took off his spectacles, and
said, “Well, Mr. C----, we will turn you in loose here, and try to give
you a good chance to work out your idea.” Then, without paying much
attention to the enthusiastic expression of my ambitious desire and
purpose, he proceeded to give me a detailed account of the history and
issue of the great proclamation.
“It had got to be,” said he, “midsummer, 1862. Things had gone on
from bad to worse, until I felt that we had reached the end of our
rope on the plan of operations we had been pursuing; that we had
about played our last card, and must change our tactics, or lose the
game! I now determined upon the adoption of the emancipation policy;
and, without consultation with, or the knowledge of the Cabinet, I
prepared the original draft of the proclamation, and, after much
anxious thought, called a Cabinet meeting upon the subject. This was
the last of July, or the first part of the month of August, 1862.”
(The exact date he did not remember.) “This Cabinet meeting took
place, I think, upon a Saturday. All were present, excepting Mr.
Blair, the Postmaster-General, who was absent at the opening of the
discussion, but came in subsequently. I said to the Cabinet that I
had resolved upon this step, and had not called them together to ask
their advice, but to lay the subject-matter of a proclamation before
them; suggestions as to which would be in order, after they had heard
it read. Mr. Lovejoy,” said he, “was in error when he informed you
that it excited no comment, excepting on the part of Secretary Seward.
Various suggestions were offered. Secretary Chase wished the language
stronger in reference to the arming of the blacks. Mr. Blair, after
he came in, deprecated the policy, on the ground that it would cost
the Administration the fall elections. Nothing, however, was offered
that I had not already fully anticipated and settled in my own mind,
until Secretary Seward spoke. He said in substance: ‘Mr. President,
I approve of the proclamation, but I question the expediency of its
issue at this juncture. The depression of the public mind, consequent
upon our repeated reverses, is so great that I fear the effect of so
important a step. It may be viewed as the last measure of an exhausted
government, a cry for help; the government stretching forth its
hands to Ethiopia, instead of Ethiopia stretching forth her hands to
the government.’ His idea,” said the President, “was that it would
be considered our last _shriek_, on the retreat.” (This was his
_precise_ expression.) “‘Now,’ continued Mr. Seward, ‘while I approve
the measure, I suggest, sir, that you postpone its issue, until you
can give it to the country supported by military success, instead of
issuing it, as would be the case now, upon the greatest disasters
of the war!’” Mr. Lincoln continued: “The wisdom of the view of the
Secretary of State struck me with very great force. It was an aspect
of the case that, in all my thought upon the subject, I had entirely
overlooked. The result was that I put the draft of the proclamation
aside, as you do your sketch for a picture, waiting for a victory. From
time to time I added or changed a line, touching it up here and there,
anxiously watching the progress of events. Well, the next news we had
was of Pope’s disaster, at Bull Run. Things looked darker than ever.
Finally, came the week of the battle of Antietam. I determined to wait
no longer. The news came, I think, on Wednesday, that the advantage
was on our side. I was then staying at the Soldiers’ Home, (three
miles out of Washington.) Here I finished writing the second draft of
the preliminary proclamation; came up on Saturday; called the Cabinet
together to hear it, and it was published the following Monday.”
At the final meeting of September 20th, another interesting incident
occurred in connection with Secretary Seward. The President had written
the important part of the proclamation in these words:--
“That, on the first day of January, in the year of our Lord one
thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, all persons held as slaves
within any State or designated part of a State, the people whereof
shall then be in rebellion against the United States, shall be then,
thenceforward, and forever FREE; and the Executive Government of the
United States, including the military and naval authority thereof, will
_recognize_ the freedom of such persons, and will do no act or acts
to repress such persons, or any of them, in any efforts they may make
for their actual freedom.” “When I finished reading this paragraph,”
resumed Mr. Lincoln, “Mr. Seward stopped me, and said, ‘I think, Mr.
President, that you should insert after the word “_recognize_,” in that
sentence, the words “_and maintain_.”’ I replied that I had already
fully considered the import of that expression in this connection, but
I had not introduced it, because it was not my way to promise what I
was not entirely _sure_ that I could perform, and I was not prepared to
say that I thought we were exactly able to ‘maintain’ this.”
“But,” said he, “Seward insisted that we ought to take this ground; and
the words finally went in!”
“It is a somewhat remarkable fact,” he subsequently remarked, “that
there were just one hundred days between the dates of the two
proclamations issued upon the 22d of September and the 1st of January.
I had not made the calculation at the time.”
Having concluded this interesting statement, the President then
proceeded to show me the various positions occupied by himself and the
different members of the Cabinet, on the occasion of the first meeting.
“As nearly as I remember,” said he, “I sat near the head of the table;
the Secretary of the Treasury and the Secretary of War were here, at my
right hand; the others were grouped at the left.”
At this point, I exhibited to him a pencil sketch of the composition
as I had conceived it, with no knowledge of the facts or details.
The leading idea of this I found, as I have stated on a previous
page, to be entirely consistent with the account I had just heard. I
saw, however, that I should have to reverse the picture, placing the
President at the other end of the table, to make it accord with his
description. I had resolved to discard all appliances and tricks of
picture-making, and endeavor, as faithfully as possible, to represent
the scene as it actually transpired; room, furniture, accessories,
all were to be painted from the actualities. It was a scene second
only in historical importance and interest to that of the Declaration
of Independence; and I felt assured, that, if honestly and earnestly
painted, it need borrow no interest from imaginary curtain or column,
gorgeous furniture or allegorical statue. Assenting heartily to what is
called the “realistic” school of art, when applied to the illustration
of historic events, I felt in this case, that I had no more right to
depart from the facts, than has the historian in his record.
When friends said to me, as they frequently did, “Your picture will
be bald and barren,” my reply was, “If I cannot make the portraiture
of the scene itself sufficiently attractive without the false glitter
of tapestry hangings, velvet table-cloths, and marble columns, then I
shall at least have the satisfaction of having failed in the cause of
truth.” I reasoned in this way: The most important document submitted
to a cabinet during our existence as a nation is under discussion.
A spectator permitted to look in upon that scene would give little
thought and small heed to the mere accessories and adjuncts of the
occasion. His mind would centre upon the immortal document,--its
anxious author, conscious of his solemn responsibility, announcing
his matured and inflexible purpose to his assembled councillors. He
would listen with unparalleled eagerness to the momentous sentences
uttered for the first time in the ears of men, and to the discussion
upon them, impatient of mere formalities and technicalities. Should a
thought be sprung of important bearing, or an overlooked contingency be
brought forward, how intently would its effect be watched. What varying
emotions, consequent upon peculiarities of temperament and character,
would be expressed in the countenances of the different individuals
composing the group. How each in turn would be scanned. Above all, the
issues involved:--the salvation of the Republic--the freedom of a Race.
“Surely,” I said, “such a scene may be painted, and abiding if not
absorbing interest secured, without the aid of conventional trappings.
The republican simplicity of the room and furniture, with its thronging
associations, will more than counterbalance the lack of splendor, and
the artistic mania for effect. I will depend solely for my success upon
the interest of the subject, and its truthfulness of representation.”
And this purpose I carried with me to the end.