early abolitionists. They were the most harmless and inoffensive of men,
and the spirit in which they approached the slavery question, and the
arguments they used in regard to it, were like those by which the
Christian Church obtained the abolition of serfdom in Europe. They were
the most purely Christian people of their time; certainly much better
Christians than those ministers of the gospel who denounced them as
disturbers of a hollow peace. So Suetonius speaks of the Christians as
being disturbers of the peace, and Tacitus, like a late writer in the
"Atlantic Monthly," refers to them as enemies of society.
It is true they finally became narrow-minded, intolerant, and almost
misanthropic, as always happens when a small minority are fatally
enclosed within an unfriendly community; but they were not so in the
beginning. Their methods were mild and pacific: they wished to influence
public-opinion, and even hoped to persuade the slaveholders to assist in
general emancipation. That the slave-holder should have been somewhat
irritated at this suggestion to part with so much valuable property is
not surprising; but why should it have disturbed their neighbors in
Massachusetts and Connecticut where the question of free and slave labor
had been agitated forty years before, and satisfactorily settled? The
same speakers who harangued against the abolitionists, would say in the
next breath that it was contrary to democratic principles for people in
one section of the country to concern themselves about the affairs of
those in another. Was it an inherited public tendency from the spirit of
intolerance which formerly persecuted the Quakers? However that may be,
it is an historical fact that great social reformers always have begun
in a similar manner, and their importance can fairly be measured by the
violence and duration of the opposition to them.
Wendell Phillips did not at first take an interest in the anti-slavery
cause. The abolitionists were not personally known to him, and his mind
was largely occupied with the pleasures of fashionable society, where he
shone before all others. There was a certain strength and good sense in
this; the reserve of a man who waits for opportunity, and who does not
risk shipwreck at the start by rushing hastily into troubled waters. In
October 1837, he was married to Miss Mary Anna Green, the daughter of
Benjamin Green of Boston, and cousin, or other near relative, to Mrs.
Maria Chapman, a friend of Harriet Martineau and other English
philanthropists. In November occurred the riot at Alton, Illinois, and
the assassination of Lovejoy. Dr. Channing's first petition for an
indignation-meeting in Faneuil Hall was refused by the authorities; but
a second and more urgent one was granted: evidently with the
anticipation that the anti-slavery people might, after all, find
themselves in a minority.
As it happened, the audience was nearly divided between the two parties,
but the pro-slavery faction, led by government officials, had the
advantage of being able to make all the noise and disturbance they
wished without being interfered with by the police for it. It seemed as
if the meeting would end in confusion and a vote of disagreement.
Twenty-five years later Wendell Phillips said of it: "I went there
without the least intention of making a speech or taking any part in the
proceedings. My wife and Mrs. Chapman wished to go, and I accompanied
them. I remember wearing a long surtout, a brand-new one, with a small
cape (as was the fashion of the day), and after the attorney-general
made his speech denouncing Lovejoy as a fool, I suddenly felt myself
inspired, and tearing off my overcoat, started for the platform. My wife
seized me by the arm, half terrified, and said, 'Wendell, what are you
going to do?' I replied, 'I am going to _speak_, if I can make
myself heard.'" The uproar was so great that the chairman asked Dr.
Channing if he could stand thunder; but the personal beauty and
intrepidity of Phillips,--coming like a meteor out of the night,--so
surprised all hearers, that they paused to listen to him, and were so
charmed by his eloquence that they neglected to make any further
disturbance. The attorney-general was wholly discomfited, and Dr.
Channing's resolutions were carried by a substantial majority.
It is surprising that so thorough an historian as Von Holst should have
omitted to make mention of this speech, which really struck the key-note
of the anti-slavery movement from first to last. As we have it now,
revised by its author from the newspaper reports of the time, it is one
of the purest, most spontaneous and magnetic pieces of oratory in
existence. It deserves a place beside those two famous speeches of James
Otis and Patrick Henry which ushered in the war of separation from
England. It possesses even a certain advantage, in the fact that it
never has been nor is likely to be made use of for school declamations.
It will always remain fresh, vigorous, and original as when it was first
delivered.
But Phillips was not content merely with silencing the opposition. He
claimed that the cause for which he spoke, and for which the meeting had
been called, was one of higher importance than any that had preceded it
in Faneuil Hall. When the audience murmured at this, he boldly
continued: "Insomuch as _thought_ is better than _money_, is
the cause for which Lovejoy died superior to that for which our
ancestors contended. James Otis thundered within these walls when the
king did but touch his pocket; imagine his indignant eloquence if they
had attempted to put a gag upon his lips." For this statement, if for
nothing else, Wendell Phillips deserves an immortality in the history of
his country.
With such an achievement at the age of twenty-six, what might not have
been expected of his maturer years,--of the full fruition of his genius?
What but a future candidate for the senate of the United States, or even
for the presidency? The full fruition of his genius, the development
that nature intended for him, never was realized. It is true, he
accomplished much, and was in himself even more,--but by no means what
he might have been. Even in the first hour of success, the temptation
comes to us which determines our future destiny in one way or another.
The two ladies were of course delighted at his triumph, and overwhelmed
him with congratulations; but Mrs. Chapman, "the born duchess", as she
was called, saw instantly what an advantage would accrue to the small
band of abolitionists from the alliance of this able young aristocrat,
with his suddenly revealed gift. That evening she used all the arts of
persuasion to induce him to relinquish his profession and cast his
fortune to sink or swim on the broad ocean of reform. She argued that
Webster and Everett had the field; that years must elapse before he
could win equality with those veterans; while as an anti-slavery orator,
a fresh field would be open to his genius, in which he would meet with
no competitor. The hour only waited for the man, and what a glorious
reward to have finally secured--the freedom of a whole race! Unhappily
this coincided with a natural inclination in Phillips, of which we have
already spoken, and a few days later he decided to follow her advice.
One could heartily wish that the born duchess had left Wendell Phillips
to work out his own salvation. It is hardly the sign of a strong
character for a man to be guided in the choice of a profession by
feminine counsel; but he was still young, tender-hearted, and
susceptible, and if left to himself might have escaped the impending
danger. It was a temptation at once to his ambition as an orator and the
latent heroism in him,--his disposition to self-sacrifice. His law
practice was not satisfactory, and he could not look forward to
immediate success in that direction--especially since the Faneuil Hall
meeting.
Much better however for him to have gone patiently forward in the path
already cleared by Webster and Everett, until, fully equipped in
experience and maturity, he could have carried his anti-slavery
principles into the arena of practical politics and become a leader in
the House of Representatives, or have stood by Sumner in the Senate. A
woman can hardly be expected to understand the long-drawn persistent
struggle by which a man rises to the top of his profession; but it seems
as if Mrs. Chapman might have been more considerate of the fortune and
prospects of this young Apollo, himself of more value than many negroes.
He did not properly belong with the abolitionists. They always felt so.
They were excellent people, stainless in thought and in action, but
limited in education and ability. Men of the highest mental endowments
naturally form a class by themselves, though not an exclusive one. If
Phillips had consulted John Quincy Adams on the subject, he would have
been answered with a "No" such as might have been heard across Court
Street.
His life was now as much changed as if spring had suddenly been
succeeded by winter. It was like a penitential pilgrimage. He had
inherited from his father a moderate property upon which he and his
wife, who was already much of an invalid, could live in a moderate way.
He resided for a time in Florence, Massachusetts, and then purchased a
small house in Essex Street, Boston, which has since been torn down to
make room for the extension of Harrison Avenue. It was a house of very
small dimensions, such as is commonly occupied by a mechanic's family;
but possessed the advantage of admitting as much sunshine as possible
into Mrs. Phillips' lonely chamber, which was probably his reason for
selecting it. He wished to live economically in order to save money for
the cause of freedom, and also for private charities.
The number of persons whom he assisted in the course of his life may be
called countless; and he was even too careful in preventing a knowledge
of this from being made public. He selected for his motto the Latin
sentence which he had translated while at school, "Phocian always
remained poor, though he might have been very rich." His fashionable
friends deserted from him in a body, and old family acquaintances passed
him in the street without recognition. The only society he had was his
wife and Mrs. Chapman and the families of the few abolitionists who
lived in Boston. He was as careful of his diet, exercise, and sleep, as
a trainer is in regard to a race-horse; and was rewarded for this with
the most magnificent health. In all things he illustrated the words of
the poet:--
"The hero is not fed on sweets;
Daily his own heart he eats:
The chambers of the great are jails
And head winds right for royal sails."
He never lost an opportunity of speaking on the slavery question. He
joined the corps of lyceum-lecturers, and soon won the first place among
them. If they would listen to him on slavery, or "Toussaint
L'Ouverture," his lecture was free; otherwise it must be paid for. No
one else did so much to arouse public consideration in regard to this
great evil, as the conservative Webster had already designated it. All
through the northern states, wherever the railroads went, there Wendell
Phillips was also, exhorting the people with burning words, and warning
especially the farmers and laboring classes that free and slave labor
could not exist together, and unless the negroes were emancipated they
would ultimately become enslaved themselves.
Stumping New England, it was said, made Wendell Phillips an orator; and
that, after all, was the right name for it. It was refined and elegant
as could be, but still stump-oratory. It became so inevitably from the
nature of the case, and in one sense this is to his credit, for it would
seem to prove that he cared more for the cause than for his own
reputation. He never attained to the well-considered architectural
oratory of Webster and Burke, though in his best period he sometimes
came very close to this, but neither did he speak to the House of
Commons, nor before a bench of judges. Nothing is more fatiguing to
untrained minds than a consistent and elaborate argument; and the mixed
character of Phillips' speeches, like a bonfire made out of all
inflammable materials, was remarkably well suited to the audiences whom
he addressed. It is said that even Burke often emptied the benches, as
if his associates in parliament did not appreciate him so well as those
who now enjoy reading his works.
An artist who draws with a free hand, will be able to develop his talent
to its full extent, but one who draws in a cramped or false manner will
always suffer more or less from the effects of it; but this was not the
worst of the matter. Self-control does much for the artist, but
unprejudiced criticism is also necessary. This Phillips never could
obtain. There were persons who judged him impartially, but he was not in
the way of obtaining their opinions. He was surrounded by a small band
of adherents who praised him without discrimination, and who fiercely
repelled the attacks of those who found fault with him. The newspapers
all took sides against him, for both political parties dreaded the
agitation of the slavery question, and Phillips could rarely look into
one of them without meeting with a savage attack on himself by some
subaltern who knew of no better use for his quill than the manufacture
of these venomous darts. Neither could he walk through the streets of
Boston without hearing himself cursed and execrated. Meanwhile Mrs.
Chapman and Mrs. L. Maria Child extolled him to the skies. Faithful and
undistorted picture of himself he could meet with nowhere.
We read of saintly characters who have endured persecution with
Christian humility and resignation, who have blessed those who cursed
them, and loved those who hated them; but how many such have we been
personally acquainted with? If we except Desdemona there are none in the
great dramatists. It is an excellent principle, this of returning good
for evil; but is it not also true that nature has planted hatred in us
as a protection against future imposition? There may be such personages,
but Wendell Phillips was not one of them.
He endured the stings of the pro-slavery hornets, as they were called,
with stoical dignity and forbearance, but in spite of all good
resolutions, they had an effect upon the inner man. Like the good
Maritornes when Sancho Panza mistook her for an evil spirit, he endured
the drubbing as long as flesh-and-blood would stand it, and then
retaliated in good earnest. It was discovered at length, that Wendell
Phillips had a sharp tongue, as well as a silver one, and could use it
also with some temper. Of course he was blamed for this, and very few
considered what provocation he had, or gave him credit for his previous
forbearance. The habit increased rather than abated in him with age, and
finally acquired the nature of a familiar demon that would appear
unexpectedly in the midst of a brilliant discourse and sadly mar the
effect of it.
His tendency to exaggeration, disregard of fact, and recklessness of
statement, may all be attributed to his irregular, improvised manner of
working. There are few public speakers, indeed, who escape these faults.
What preparation he made for his speeches will probably never be known.
He was always as mysterious on this point as a professional juggler. To
a lady who once asked him about it, he replied, that he never made any
preparation. For those of his speeches that have been published, we are
obliged to a skilful short-hand writer named Yerrinton, who was Wendell
Phillips' devoted admirer, and never missed an opportunity of hearing
him on a fresh subject in Boston or New York.
To judge from internal evidence, it would seem likely that having
divided his subject, as a lawyer does his argument, into a number of
points, and having filled his mind somewhat full of them, he wrote out a
careful and well-studied opening to his address, and then committed it
to memory. This would enable him to make terms, as it were, with his
audience in those first critical moments of his speech, and afterwards
he could rely on his native wit and genius to carry him through. When
his subject was a criticism of public events, this was not so difficult,
and it gave him the advantage of a certain vivacious energy which
appealed strongly to his hearers; but it was a dangerous practice. An
orator who has a certain length of time to fill, and a reputation to
sustain, is obliged to go on at all hazards. He cannot afford to be
dull, nor to stop for a moment's reflection. If his memory fails him for
an instant, imagination must supply its place. In this manner he often
made misstatements which were quite unintentional, and must have been
deeply regretted afterwards. Some allowance too should be made for a man
who feels himself in a desperate position. His historical lectures on
"The Lost Arts," "Daniel O'Connel," and "Toussaint," must sooner or
later have been committed to memory, and were repeated again and again
in a nearly identical form.
To amend for these deficiencies, his delivery was perfect, and even more
than that. One of our best critics has called him matchless in this
respect, and no other orator of the century, except possibly Canning,
may be compared to him. Webster was more effective, but rather
ponderous. Choate's style was peculiar, and Everett's cold and studied.
Gladstone resembles him more, perhaps, than any other, but Gladstone has
a decided solemnity of manner which is a help to him among his
countrymen, but a defect as judged by classic standards. With Wendell
Phillips, it was not only that every phase of thought and feeling was
portrayed at once in his face, attitude, and gestures, but this was done
with such grace and purity as only belongs to the very highest art. It
was as if a figure in Raphael's "School at Athens" had suddenly stepped
out from the picture and explained the thought of the master to us in
words.
There is nothing I can compare with the unconscious grace and purity of
Phillips in his best moments except a picture by Raphael, or one of
Milton's shorter poems. It was no lurid brilliancy or artificial light
that shone from him, but rather the cheerful radiance of spring
sunshine. No matter how gloomy the political outlook might be, or in
what sombre colors he depicted it, this light from the man himself
illuminated his subject and gave encouragement to his hearers. The most
prolonged applause could not disturb a muscle in his countenance, and a
storm of hisses appeared to have as little effect on him. From the first
word to the last, he was master of the platform, and no one dreamed of
contesting his right to it. His gestures were his own, and could not be
imitated, for they were the creation of the moment. There was something
magical in this art of his, and if his wisdom and judgment had only
equalled it, he might have counted among the greatest of men.
Emerson sent one of Webster's orations to Carlyle, and the latter
complained that it was monotonous and lacked the poetic quality of
Demosthenes. This is quite true, but at the same time it may be said
that Webster's speeches, judged simply as literature, have not been
surpassed by five other American writers. The grand roll of his
sentences does not become wearisome to a lover of sound reasoning, and
in the presentation of his subject he has rarely been equalled. An
oration of his is not like a picture hanging on the wall, but rather a
public building which one can walk around and look at from the four
cardinal points. Even his speech on the fugitive-slave bill, for which
he has been so much blamed, contains the best analysis of the slavery
question up to that time which had yet been made. He considered slavery
a great evil, and his mistake evidently consisted in supposing that a
great evil could exist in one part of the nation without vitiating the
whole of it.
[Illustration: WENDELL PHILLIPS. AS HE APPEARED BEFORE THE PHI BETA KAPPA.]
Phillips looked upon slavery as a crime, and attacked it in an
uncompromising manner. His speeches are not much like Webster's, but
they are excellent reading; full of keen, vivid thought, bright sayings,
and genial humor. He had the imagination of Demosthenes, but without the
logical faculty. Many of them possess historical value, and but for too
much _voix blanc_, like the brightness of new silver, might be
compared with Emerson's essays. Certain passages and individual
sentences are of rare beauty. Speaking of Lovejoy thirty years after his
death, he said, "How cautiously men sink into nameless graves, while now
and then one forgets himself into immortality." At the time of the Dred
Scott decision, he exclaimed: "Is Liberty dead? Is the valley of the
Mississippi her grave? Are the Rocky Mountains her monument; and shall
the Falls of Niagara chant forever her requiem?" In his Brooklyn address
of November 1st, 1859, the finest of his orations, and one which he must
have prepared with exceptional care, after telling the story of Tsar
Nicholas, who insisted on building a straight railroad from Moscow to
St. Petersburg in spite of the opposition of the engineers, he
continued: "An intelligent democracy says of slavery, or a law, or a
creed, 'This is justice, or it is not'; the track of God's thunderbolt
is a straight line from justice to iniquity, and the church or state
that cannot stand it must get out of the way." Or take this illustration
of his subject from Athenian life--which is itself Athenian, and very
much in the vein of Demosthenes:--
"Anacharsis went into the forum at Athens, and heard a case argued by
the great minds of the day, and saw the vote. He walked out into the
streets, and somebody said to him, 'What think you of Athenian liberty?'
'I think,' said he, 'wise men argue causes, and fools decide them.' Just
what the timid scholar two thousand years ago said in the streets of
Athens, that which calls itself the scholarship of the United States
says today of popular agitation, that it lets wise men argue questions,
and fools decide them. But that unruly Athens, where fools decided the
gravest questions of polity and right and wrong, where it was not safe
to be just, and where property, which you had garnered up by the thrift
and industry of to-day, might be wrung from you by the caprices of the
mob to-morrow,--that very Athens probably secured the greatest human
happiness and nobleness of its era, invented art, and sounded for us the
depths of philosophy: God lent to it the noblest intellects, and it
flashes to-day the torch that gilds yet the mountain-peaks of
civilization."
At a memorial meeting of Sumner's friends in 1874, Phillips concluded
his remarks with the same expression that Cicero used in regard to
Homer:--"There was no one like Sumner." He was not a mellow-toned orator
of peace and conciliation, but soul-stirring, and one could detect the
distant flash of a sword-blade in his periods.
In private life, he was the most delightful of men. Good orators always
have the finest manners, for it is from them that we learn the art of
behavior; but Wendell Phillips never brought the great man of the world
to the drawing-room or dining-table, but was so perfectly a gentleman
that he seemed almost like a prince who had abdicated his hereditary
possessions. He did not seem to have been bred to good manners, but born
to them, so natural and unconstrained was everything he said and did.
Never self-conscious and never self-forgetful; where consideration was
needed he was sure to be at hand. He was at once dignified and
deferential, even to children and servants, whom he was sure to remember
in the homes where he visited, and usually had a kind word for them at
the right moment. I do not think he could have treated even the meanest
of women with disrespect.