PARIS AGAIN THE CIVIL WAR IN AMERICA
I remained in Paris all that winter, and took a studio with an
American friend,--Mr. Yewell,--but I could do no work; the headache
never left me, and, though I could draw a little, my vision failed
when it was strained, and I seemed to have lost my color sense. I was
desperate, and, when Garibaldi set out on the Marsala expedition, I
was just on the point of sailing to join him when I received a letter
from the father of my fiancée, telling me that her perplexities and
distress of mind over our marriage had so increased that they feared
for her reason if she were not set at rest. I took the next steamer,
and ended the vacillation by insisting on being married at once.
Nothing but a morbid self-depreciation had prevented her from coming
to a decision in the matter long before, and there was no other
solution than to assume command and impose my will. We were married
two days after my landing, and returned to Paris a few days after.
When the spring opened we went down into Normandy, and there,
returning to the study of nature and living in quiet and freedom from
anxiety, I slowly and partially recovered my vision, and began to
regain in a measure the power of drawing. The landscape of the quiet
French country suited me perfectly, and I made two or three good
studies, but without getting into a really efficient condition for
painting, which I only did a year or two later at Rome.
Our winter in Paris had been greatly brightened by the acquaintance of
the Brownings, the father and sister of the poet. We lived in the same
section of Paris, near the Hotel des Invalides, and much of our time
was passed with them. "Old Mr. Browning" we have always called him,
though the qualification of "old," by which we distinguished him from
his son Robert, seemed a misnomer, for he had the perpetual juvenility
of a blessed child. If to live in the world as if not of it indicates
a saintly nature, then Robert Browning the elder was a saint: a
serene, untroubled soul, conscious of no moral or theological problem
to disturb his serenity, and as gentle as a gentle woman,--a man in
whom, it seemed to me, no moral conflict could ever have arisen to
cloud his frank acceptance of life as he found it come to him. He had,
many years before we knew him, inherited an estate in Jamaica, but on
learning that to work it to profit he must become a slave owner he
renounced the heritage. And, knowing him as we knew him, it is easy to
see that he would renounce it cheerfully and without any hesitation.
A man of a rougher and more energetic type might have tried the
experiment, or questioned the judgment, at least have regretted his
own integrity, but Browning could have done neither. The way was
clear, and the decision must have been as quick as that of a child
to reject a thing it abhorred. His unworldliness had not a flaw. So
beautiful a life can never have become distinguished in the struggles
and antagonisms which make the career of the man of the world, or even
the man of letters, as letters are now written; for he was a man, and
the only one I ever knew, of whom one would say that he applied in the
divine sense the maxim of Christ, "Resist not evil,"--he simply, and
by the necessity of his own nature, ignored it.
He had a curious facility in drawing heads of quaint and always varied
character, which character he could not foresee when he began the
drawing. They were always in profile, and he began at one extremity
and ran his pencil round to the other, always bringing out an
individuality, but without any intention as to what that should be;
and he named it, when it was done, according to the type it offered,
generally in character, with a trace of caricature, and, for the most
part, subjects from the courts of law,--a judge or a puzzled juror, a
disappointed or a triumphant client, etc., etc. He would draw a dozen
or twenty in an evening, all different and all unforeseen, as much to
him as to us, and he was as much amused as we were when it turned out
more than usually funny. His chief amusement was hunting through the
bookstalls along the quays, and I have, amongst my old books, an early
life of Raphael, which he gave me, with his name on the fly leaf.
Of Miss Browning, who still lives, I will not speak; but what she told
me of the poet's mother may, I think, be told without indiscretion.
She had the extraordinary power over animals of which we hear
sometimes, but of which I have never known a case so perfect as hers.
She would lure the butterflies in the garden to her, and the domestic
animals obeyed her as if they reasoned. Robert had been given a
pure-blooded bulldog of a rare breed, which tolerated no interference
from any person except him or his mother, and which would allow no
familiarity with her on the part of strangers; so that when a neighbor
came in he was not permitted to shake hands with her, for the dog at
once showed his teeth. Not even her husband was allowed to take the
slightest liberty with her in the dog's presence, and when Robert was
more familiar with her than the dog thought proper he showed his teeth
to him. They one day put him to a severe test, Robert putting his arm
around his mother's neck as they sat side by side at the table. The
dog went round behind them, and, putting his feet upon the chair,
lifted Robert's arm off her shoulder with his nose, giving an
intimation that he would not permit any liberty of that kind even from
him. They had a favorite cat, to which the dog had the usual antipathy
of dogs, and one day he chased her under a cupboard, and, unable to
reach her, kept her there besieged and unable to escape, till Mrs.
Browning intervened and gave the dog a lecture, in which she told him
of their attachment for the cat, and charged him never to molest her
more. If the creature had understood speech he could not have obeyed
better; for from that time he was never known to molest the cat, and
she, taking her revenge for past tyranny, bore herself most insolently
with him, and when she scratched him over the head he only whimpered
and turned away, as if to avoid temptation. An injury to one of his
feet made an operation necessary, and the family surgeon was called
in to perform it, but found him so savage that he could not touch the
foot or approach him. Mrs. Browning came and talked to him in her
way, and the dog submitted at once, without a whimper, to the painful
operation. She had been long dead when I knew the family.
We had planned to go together--the elder Browning, Robert and Mrs.
Browning, Miss Browning, my wife, and myself--to pass the summer at
Fontainebleau, and we were awaiting the arrival of Robert and his wife
from Florence when the news came of Mrs. Browning's illness, followed
not much later by that of her death. The intrusion even of a friend
was too much for this catastrophe, and we saw little more of the
Brownings until years after, when other and many changes of fortune
had come over us, and we met again in Italy.
Out of a quiet and happy life in Normandy I was aroused by the
complications of our Civil War. An intimate friend living in Paris,
the late Colonel W.B. Greene, a graduate of West Point, had applied
for the command of a regiment of Massachusetts troops, and offered me
a position on his staff if he got it and I would come. We agreed to go
together, but his impatience carried him away, and he sailed without
giving me notice. I followed by the next steamer, and, leaving my wife
with my parents, I went on to Washington and to Greene's headquarters.
I was too late for Greene, and I could not pass the medical
examination, which was then very rigid, for all the North was
volunteering. "Go home," said Greene; "we have already buried all the
men like you. We have not seen the enemy yet, and we have buried six
per cent. of the regiment. It is no place for you." But I had no
choice; there were 800,000 men enlisted, and further enlistments were
countermanded. I tried to get some position with Burnside,--who was
fitting out an expedition to North Carolina,--even as cook; for I
could not pass for the rank and file, and Burnside, as a friend of my
friends in Rhode Island, might, I thought, help me. He replied that
he had already nine applications for every post at his disposal. As a
last resource, I went up into the Adirondacks to raise a company of
sharpshooters. My backwoodsmen were all ready to go, but they wanted
special rifles and special organization, for they meant to go to
"shoot secesh," not to be regular infantry. Their ambition was not
reconcilable with the plans of the military authorities, so that
the company was never raised, and I then turned to my plan for the
consulate.
I suppose that there are few now living who knew by personal
investigation and remember clearly the condition of the country at
that epoch. We had suffered the defeat of Bull Run, and the country at
large was in a state of flaming patriotism; but sober people had many
doubts whether the government was strong enough to carry through the
plans of the President, and he also had, I was told by some one who
knew him, been very uncertain whether the population at large would
respond, even when he made the first call for 75,000 volunteers.
Persons in positions of great influence were of the opinion that
the North had no right to coerce the South. General Scott, the
commander-in-chief, urged separation peacefully, and Horace Greeley,
the most influential member of the press in the country, opposed
coercion, while the mass of the Democratic party were either on the
fence or openly in favor of the South, and this opposition of
the Democrats was probably what gave Lincoln the most serious
consideration. Some of the most earnest and patriotic people I knew
had grave doubts if the Northern people had any conception of the work
they had undertaken, and if they would be constant when they came to
realize it.
While I was in Washington I saw Lincoln and some of those around him,
and my opinion is that, but for his faith in the Supreme Providence
and in the destiny of our Republic, his courage, and with it the whole
scheme of defense, would have broken down. Future generations will not
understand the difficulties before him,--perhaps he himself did not.
The administration of Buchanan had prepared for the secession, and
Buchanan as minister to England had already established the opinion
of the governing class in that country in the certainty of impending
separation,--a fact which should be remembered when we judge the
attitude of England; the fleet had been dispersed to the ends of the
earth, and the officers of the army were mainly Southerners. The
support of New York and Massachusetts was of the gravest importance.
The former was largely under the influence of Seward, and he was
inclined by nature to conciliation; in the latter State, General
Butler, a Democrat, and of seriously questioned loyalty, had an
influence which might easily become the dominant one and carry the
State over to the Democratic opposition, which was in the country at
large distinctly opposed to coercion. The government and the ruling
class in England were clearly hostile to the North, and the position
on that side was menacing.
Had the South then been content with separation on the lines of "Mason
and Dixon's line," I am convinced that it would have taken place
without a struggle, if the position could have been defined without
bloodshed. But this was what the most sagacious of the Southern
leaders did not desire. It became evident that the majority in the
South did not desire separation, and the leaders knew that a peaceful
separation would be followed by reconstruction on something like the
old lines, for the South could not stand alone industrially; so that
they had not concealed their determination to invade the Middle and
Western States, and carry them forcibly over to the new Confederacy,
"leaving out New England." It was generally known that Pennsylvania
and New Jersey were Democratic and lukewarm for the old Union, and
that Ohio and the West would not resist if there were a successful
beginning of a movement and a military invasion. So far as the
sentiments of the politicians were concerned, the South had a very
correct idea of the probabilities of the situation; what they were
utterly ignorant of was the spirit of the masses in the North, which
they thought to coerce easily. There they were mistaken, and there
Lincoln saw his strength, and that saved the country; for, with the
firing on Fort Sumter and the open insult to the flag, the Northern
masses took fire, and the conflagration burned out the roots of
sympathy for the South. Butler was given a command in the field;
others of the same class were given commands, and the dangerous
demagogue class was enlisted for the war.
When I landed, the entire able-bodied population of the North was
seeking to enlist, and the troops were pouring by thousands into
Washington, and only the most uncertain and prudent of the Northern
leaders doubted of victory, though no one dreamed what it would cost.
And, looking at the corruption of American politics to-day, the
venality and the indifference to the true interests of the nation of
most of the men who control the political life at its most important
centres, and the general tendency of our politics, it needs a serene
and far-reaching faith in human progress to enable a citizen of the
United States, who believes in a political ideal, to regard the
sacrifices then made as having been profitable. I see things
dispassionately and as an old man removed from the chance of personal
gains or losses, and, but for a faith in human progress being the
result of an eternal and inevitable law, I should say that the blood
of that war had been wasted. It is a painful conviction to die
with,--but I expect to die with it,--that generations and unparalleled
disasters must pass before my country reaches the goal its founders
believed to be its destiny.
Having exhausted every appliance to open a way into the army, I made
my appeal to Dr. Nott, and received by return of the Washington post
my commission as consul at Rome, as I have told in a previous chapter.
I went on to Cambridge to get information and advice, and, at
Lowell's, met Howells for the first time. We could, each of us, offer
condolence for the other's disappointment; for Howells had asked for
Dresden and was appointed to Venice, while I had asked for Venice,
intending to write the history of Venetian art. But Rome had always
been given to an artist; and, though there was no salary, but fees
only, it seemed to have been a much-sought-for position, and I
accepted.
Leaving my wife at home, for her confinement, I sailed for England,
_en route_ for Italy, just when the capture of Mason and Slidell had
thrown the country into a new agitation; for it was foreseen that
England would not submit to this disrespect to her flag, though the
step was in strict accordance with her own precedents. Seward and
the more prudent part of the public were in favor of releasing the
prisoners at once, and before any demand could be made by the English
government; but it was said that Lincoln and the West were in favor of
holding them, and letting England do her worst. It is possible that he
thought that a foreign enemy would decide all the wavering minds, and
possibly open the way to a pacification between the North and South.
I left New York before we had heard of the reception of the news
in England, and found the agitation there intense. The consul at
Liverpool told me that he could not go into the Exchange for the
insults offered him there, and American merchants were insulted on the
street. In London, at the restaurants where I dined, the conversation
turned altogether on the incident, and the language was most violent.
As I was in the service of the government I waited on Mr. Adams, the
minister, and remained in London until the question was settled, in
daily communication with him. He thought the danger of war still
great, as Lincoln had not decided to accept the ultimatum, and the
English ministry was, in Adams's opinion, desirous of having a _casus
belli_, or at least a justification for recognizing the Southern
Confederacy. That war had not already become inevitable he considered
due entirely to the attitude of the Queen, who resisted any measure
calculated to precipitate a hostile solution, and had refused her
assent to a dispatch demanding the release of the envoys, and worded
in such peremptory terms that Lincoln could not have hesitated to
repel it at any cost,--an outcome which, in the opinion of Mr. Adams,
was what Palmerston, Gladstone, and Lord John Russell wanted. But, on
the insistence of the Queen, the offensive passage was struck out, and
peace was preserved, though at that moment the reply of our government
had not been received, and Adams did not consider that, even in
its modified form, the demand of the English ministry might not be
rejected. As the crisis was still undecided, I waited until the
solution was definite. The favorable reply came by the next steamer.
To the peace-loving heart of the Queen mainly, and next to the tact
and diplomatic ability of Mr. Adams, the world owes that the war most
disastrous possible for the civilization of the west was avoided. Put
at rest with regard to this danger, I continued my journey and entered
upon my functions as representative of my government at Rome.
I have since heard various versions of this crisis and its solution,
but the above is, I believe, substantially the truth. I have heard
that the English dispatch was referred to the French Minister
of Foreign Affairs, and that he advised against it; but this is
impossible. The Emperor of France was more determined even than
Palmerston to destroy the United States, if possible, as his Mexican
enterprise showed, and we knew from other sources that he was pressing
the English government to recognize the belligerency of the South.
Day by day I heard from Mr. Adams of the position, and he said to
me emphatically that he did not consider the declaration of war
impossible until he received the reply of Lincoln to the English
ultimatum; and it is impossible that such a transaction as that of
the consultation with the French government should have taken place
without Adams knowing of it, for his information from the surroundings
of the Queen was minute and incessant. He said to me, without the
slightest qualification, that the preservation of peace was due solely
to the insistence of the Queen, strengthened by the advice of Prince
Albert, on the demand for the release of the envoys being made in
terms which should not offend the _amour propre_ of the North.