The Great Lincoln-Douglas Debate--Rivals for the U.S.
Senate--Lincoln's "House-Divided-against-Itself" Speech--An
Inspired Oration--Alarming His Friends--Challenges Douglas to a
Joint Discussion--The Champions Contrasted--Their Opinions of Each
Other--Lincoln and Douglas on the Stump--Slavery the Leading
Issue--Scenes and Anecdotes of the Great Debate--Pen-Picture of
Lincoln on the Stump--Humors of the Campaign--Some Sharp
Rejoinders--Words of Soberness--Close of the Conflict.
The year 1858 is memorable alike in the career of Lincoln and in the
political history of the country. It was distinguished by the joint
discussions between the two great political leaders of Illinois, which
rank among the ablest forensic debates that have taken place since the
foundation of the republic. The occasion was one to call out the
greatest powers of the two remarkable men who there contested for
political supremacy. It was not alone that Lincoln and Douglas were
opposing candidates for a high office--that of Senator of the United
States: they were the champions and spokesmen of their parties at a
critical period when great issues were to be discussed and great
movements outlined and directed. It was naturally expected that the
winner in the contest would become the political leader of his State.
Little was it imagined that the loser would become the leader and savior
of the Nation.
On the 21st of April the Democratic convention of Illinois met at
Springfield and announced Stephen A. Douglas, then United States
Senator, as its choice for another term. June 16 the Republican
convention met at the same place and declared unanimously that "Abraham
Lincoln is our first and only choice for United States Senator to fill
the vacancy about to be created by the expiration of Mr. Douglas's term
of office." For a number of days previous to the meeting of the
Republican convention Lincoln had been engaged in preparing a speech for
the occasion. It was composed after his usual method--the separate
thoughts jotted down as they came to him, on scraps of paper at hand at
the moment, and these notes were arranged in order and elaborated into a
finished essay, copied on large sheets of paper in a plain and legible
handwriting. This was the speech which afterwards came to be so
celebrated as the "house-divided-against-itself" speech. Lincoln was
gravely conscious of its unusual importance, and gave great care and
deliberation to its composition. The evening of June 16--the day of his
nomination by the convention--Lincoln went to his office, accompanied by
his friend Herndon, and having locked the door proceeded to read his
speech. Slowly and distinctly he read the first paragraph, and then
turned to Herndon with, "What do you think of that?" Mr. Herndon was
startled at its boldness. "I think," said he, "it is all true. But is it
entirely politic to read or speak it as it is written?" "That makes no
difference," said Lincoln. "That expression is a truth of all human
experience,--'a house divided against itself cannot stand.' The
proposition is indisputably true, and has been true for more than six
thousand years; I want to use some universally known figure, expressed
in simple language, that may strike home to the minds of men in order to
rouse them to the peril of the times." Mr. Herndon was convinced by
Lincoln's language, and advised him to deliver the speech just as it was
written. Lincoln was satisfied, but thought it would be prudent to
consult a few other friends in the matter, and about a dozen were called
in. "After seating them at the round table," says John Armstrong, one of
the number, "he read that clause or section of his speech which reads,
'a house divided against itself cannot stand,' etc. He read it slowly
and cautiously, so as to let each man fully understand it. After he had
finished the reading, he asked the opinions of his friends as to the
wisdom or policy of it. Every man among them condemned the speech in
substance and spirit, especially that section quoted above, as unwise
and impolitic if not untrue. They unanimously declared that the whole
speech was too far in advance of the times. Herndon sat still while they
were giving their respective opinions of its unwisdom and impolicy; then
he sprang to his feet and said, 'Lincoln, deliver it _just as it reads_.
If it is in advance of the times, let us lift the people to its level.
The speech is true, wise, and politic, and will succeed now or in the
future. Nay, it will aid you, if it will not make you President of the
United States.' Mr. Lincoln sat still a moment, then rose from his
chair, walked backwards and forwards in the hall, stopped, and said:
'Friends, I have thought about this matter a great deal, have weighed
the questions from all corners, and am thoroughly convinced the time has
come when this speech should be uttered; and if it be that I must go
down because of it, then let me go down linked to truth--die in the
advocacy of what is right and just. This nation cannot live on
injustice; "a house divided against itself cannot stand," I say again
and again.' This was spoken with emotion--the effects of his love of
truth, and sorrow from the disagreement of his friends."
On the next evening the speech was delivered to an immense audience in
the hall of the House of Representatives at Springfield. "The hall and
lobbies and galleries were even more densely crowded and packed than at
any time during the day," says the official report; and as Lincoln
"approached the speaker's stand, he was greeted with shouts and hurrahs,
and prolonged cheers." The prophetic sentences which dropped first from
the lips of the speaker were freighted with a solemn import which even
he could scarcely have divined in full. The seers of old were not more
inspired than he who now, out of the irresistible conviction of his
heart, said to his surprised and unbelieving listeners:
If we could first know where we are and whither we are tending, we
could then better judge what to do and how to do it. We are now far
on in the fifth year since a policy was initiated with the avowed
object and confident promise of putting an end to slavery
agitation. Under the operation of that policy, that agitation has
not only not ceased, but has constantly augmented. In my opinion it
will not cease until a crisis shall have been reached and passed.
'A house divided against itself cannot stand.' I believe this
Government cannot endure, permanently, half slave and half free. I
do not expect the Union to be dissolved--I do not expect the house
to fall--but I do expect it will cease to be divided. It will
become all one thing or all the other. Either the opponents of
slavery will arrest the further spread of it, and place it where
the public mind shall rest in the belief that it is in course of
ultimate extinction, or its advocates will push it forward till it
shall become alike lawful in all the States--old as well as
new--North as well as South.
Mr. Jeriah Bonham, an old citizen of Illinois, relates that he was
present as a delegate at the Springfield convention and heard the famous
speech of Lincoln. According to Mr. Bonham, "The speech was prepared
with unusual care, every paragraph and sentence carefully weighed. The
firm bedrock of principles, the issues of the campaign on which he
proposed to stand and fight his battles, were all well considered, and
his arguments were incontrovertible. In that memorable speech culminated
all the grand thoughts he had ever uttered, embodying divinity,
statesmanship, law, and morals, and even fraught with prophecy. As he
advanced in this argument he towered to his full height, forgetting
himself entirely as he grew warm in his work. Men and women who heard
that speech well remember the wonderful transformation wrought in
Lincoln's appearance. The plain, homely man towered up majestically; his
face lit as with angelic light; the long, bent, angular figure, like the
strong oak of the forest, stood erect, and his eyes flashed with the
fire of inspiration."
The party that had nominated Lincoln for the Senate was not prepared to
endorse his restriction of the coming struggle to the single issue of
the slavery question. His friends dreaded the result of his
uncompromising frankness, while politicians quite generally condemned
it. Even so stanch a friend as Leonard Swett, whose devotion to Lincoln
never wavered throughout his whole career, shared these apprehensions.
Says Mr. Swett: "The first ten lines of that speech defeated him. The
sentiment of the 'house divided against itself' seemed wholly
inappropriate. It was a speech made at the commencement of a campaign,
and apparently made for the campaign. Viewing it in this light alone,
nothing could have been more unfortunate or inappropriate. It was saying
the wrong thing first; yet he felt that it was an abstract truth, and
that standing by the speech would ultimately find him in the right
place. I was inclined at the time to believe these words were hastily
and inconsiderately uttered; but subsequent facts have convinced me they
were deliberate and had been well matured."
A few days after the delivery of this speech, a gentleman named Dr. Long
called on Lincoln and gave him a foretaste of the remarks he was to hear
during the next few months. "Well, Lincoln," said he, "that foolish
speech of yours will kill you--will defeat you in this contest, and
probably for all offices for all time to come. I am sorry, sorry, very
sorry. I wish it was wiped out of existence. Don't you wish so too?"
Laying down the pen with which he had been writing, and slowly raising
his head and adjusting his spectacles, Lincoln replied: "Well, Doctor,
if I had to draw a pen across and erase my whole life from existence,
and I had one poor gift or choice left as to what I should save from the
wreck, _I should choose that speech_, and leave it to the world
unerased."
The Senatorial campaign was now well begun. Douglas opened it by a
speech at Chicago on the 9th of July. Lincoln was present, and on the
next evening spoke in reply from the same place--the balcony of the
Tremont House. A week later Douglas spoke at Bloomington, with Lincoln
again in the audience. The notion of a joint discussion seems to have
originated with Lincoln, who on the 24th of July addressed a note to
Douglas as follows:
HON. S.A. DOUGLAS--My Dear Sir:--Will it be agreeable to you to
make an arrangement for you and myself to divide time, and
address the same audiences during the present canvass? Mr. Judd,
who will hand you this, is authorized to receive your answer,
and, if agreeable to you, to enter into the terms of such
arrangement. Your obedient servant, A. LINCOLN.
The result of this proposal was an agreement that there should be a
joint discussion between the two candidates in each of the seven
Congressional districts in which they had not both already been heard.
Places were named and dates fixed extending to the middle of October. It
was agreed that the opening speech on each occasion should occupy one
hour; the reply, one hour and a half; the close, half an hour; and that
Mr. Douglas should have the first and last voice in four of the seven
meetings.
The champions who were thus to enter the lists in a decisive trial of
forensic strength and skill are forcibly contrasted by Mr. Speed, who
says: "They were the respective leaders of their parties in the State.
They were as opposite in character as they were unlike in their persons.
Lincoln was long and ungainly; Douglas was short and compact. Douglas,
in all elections, was the moving spirit and manager. He was content
with nothing short of a blind submission to himself. He could not
tolerate opposition to his will within his party organization. He held
the reins and controlled the movements of the Democratic chariot. With a
large State majority, with many able and ambitious men in it, he stepped
to the front in his youth and held his place till his death. Lincoln, on
the other hand, shrank from any controversy with his friends. His party
being in a minority in the State, he was forced to the front because his
friends thought he was the only man with whom they could win. In a
canvass his friends had to do all the management. He knew nothing of how
to reach the people except by addressing their reason. If the situation
had been reversed--Lincoln representing the majority and Douglas the
minority--I think it most likely Lincoln would never have had the place.
He had no heart for a fight with friends."
The Hon. James G. Blaine has given a masterly description and analysis
of the comparative powers of the two illustrious debaters. Douglas, says
Mr. Blaine, "was everywhere known as a debater of singular skill. His
mind was fertile in resources. He was a master of logic. No man
perceived more quickly than he the strength or the weakness of an
argument, and no one excelled him in the use of sophistry and fallacy.
Where he could not elucidate a point to his own advantage, he would
fatally becloud it for his opponent. In that peculiar style of debate
which in intensity resembles a physical combat, he had no equal. He
spoke with extraordinary readiness. There was no halting in his phrase.
He used good English, terse, vigorous, pointed. He disregarded the
adornments of rhetoric--rarely used a simile. He was utterly destitute
of humor, and had slight appreciation of wit. He never cited historical
precedents except from the domain of American politics. Inside that
field his knowledge was comprehensive, minute, critical; beyond it his
learning was limited. He was not a reader. His recreations were not in
literature. In the whole range of his voluminous speaking, it would be
difficult to find either a line of poetry or a classical allusion. But
he was by nature an orator, and by long practice a debater. He could
lead a crowd almost irresistibly to his own conclusions. He could, if he
wished, incite a mob to desperate deeds. He was, in short, an able,
audacious, almost unconquerable opponent in public discussion. It would
have been impossible to find any man of the same type able to meet him
before the people of Illinois. Whoever attempted it would probably have
been destroyed in the first encounter. But the man who was chosen to
meet him, who challenged him to the combat, was radically different in
every phase of character. Scarcely could two men be more unlike in
mental and moral constitution than Abraham Lincoln and Stephen A.
Douglas. Lincoln was calm and philosophic. He loved the truth for the
truth's sake. He would not argue from a false premise, or be deceived
himself or deceive others by a false conclusion. He had pondered deeply
on the issues which aroused him to action. He had given anxious thought
to the problems of free government, and to the destiny of the Republic.
He had marked out a path of duty for himself, and he walked it
fearlessly. His mental processes were slower but more profound than
those of Douglas. He did not seek to say merely the thing which was best
for that day's debate, but the thing which would stand the test of time
and square itself with eternal justice. He wished nothing to appear
white unless it was white. His logic was severe and faultless. He did
not resort to fallacy, and could detect it in his opponent and expose it
with merciless directness. He had an abounding sense of humor, and
always employed it in illustration of his argument--but never for the
mere sake of provoking merriment. In this respect he had the wonderful
aptness of Franklin. He often taught a great truth with the felicitous
brevity of an Aesop fable. His words did not flow in an impetuous
torrent, as did those of Douglas; but they were always well chosen,
deliberate and conclusive."
Mr. Arnold, in the course of an extended comparison, says: "At the time
of these discussions, both Lincoln and Douglas were in the full maturity
of their powers. Douglas was forty-five and Lincoln forty-nine years of
age. Physically and mentally, they were as unlike as possible. Douglas
was short, not much more than five feet high, with a large head, massive
brain, broad shoulders, a wide, deep chest, and features strongly
marked. He impressed every one, at first sight, as a strong, sturdy,
resolute, fearless man. Lincoln's herculean stature has already been
described. A stranger who listened to him for five minutes would say:
'This is a kind, genial, sincere, genuine man; a man you can trust,
plain, straightforward, honest, and true.' If this stranger were to hear
him make a speech, he would be impressed with his clear good sense, by
his wit and humor, by his general intelligence, and by the simple,
homely, but pure and accurate language he used. In his long residence at
Washington, Douglas had acquired the bearing and manners of a gentleman
and a man of the world. But he was always a fascinating and attractive
man, and always and everywhere personally popular. He had been for years
carefully and thoroughly trained on the stump, in Congress, and in the
Senate, to meet in debate the ablest speakers in the State and Nation.
For years he had been accustomed to meet on the floor of the Capitol the
leaders of the old Whig and Free-soil parties. Among them were Webster
and Seward, Fessenden and Crittenden, Chase, Trumbull, Hale and others
of nearly equal eminence; and his enthusiastic friends insisted that
never, either in single conflict or when receiving the assault of the
senatorial leaders of a whole party, had he been discomfited. His style
was bold, vigorous, and aggressive; at times even defiant. He was ready,
fluent, fertile in resources, familiar with national and party history,
severe in denunciation, and he handled with skill nearly all the weapons
of debate. His iron will and restless energy, together with great
personal magnetism, made him the idol of his friends and party. His
long, brilliant, and almost universally successful career, gave him
perfect confidence in himself, and at times he was arrogant and
overbearing.... Lincoln also was a thoroughly trained speaker. He had
met successfully, year after year, at the bar and on the stump, the
ablest men of Illinois and the Northwest, including Lamborn, Stephen T.
Logan, John Calhoun, and many others. He had contended, in generous
emulation, with Hardin, Baker, Logan, and Browning; and had very often
met Douglas, a conflict with whom he always courted rather than shunned.
His speeches, as we read them to-day, show a more familiar knowledge of
the slavery question than those of any other statesman of our country.
This is especially true of the Peoria speech and the Cooper Institute
speech. Lincoln was powerful in argument, always seizing the strong
points, and demonstrating his propositions with a clearness and logic
approaching the certainty of mathematics. He had, in wit and humor, a
great advantage over Douglas. Then he had the better temper; he was
always good humored, while Douglas, when hard pressed, was sometimes
irritable. Douglas perhaps carried away the more popular applause;
Lincoln made the deeper and more lasting impression. Douglas did not
disdain an immediate _ad captandum_ triumph; while Lincoln aimed at
permanent conviction. Sometimes, when Lincoln's friends urged him to
raise a storm of applause, which he could always do by his happy
illustrations and amusing stories, he refused, saying, 'The occasion is
too serious; the issues are too grave. I do not seek applause, or to
amuse the people, but to _convince_ them.' It was observed in the
canvass that while Douglas was greeted with the loudest cheers, when
Lincoln closed the people seemed serious and thoughtful, and could be
heard all through the crowd, gravely and anxiously discussing the
subjects on which he had been speaking."
Soon after the arrangements for the debate had been made, Senator
Douglas visited Alton, Illinois. A delegation of prominent Democrats
there paid their respects to him, and during the conversation one of
them congratulated Douglas on the easy task he would have in defeating
Lincoln; at the same time expressing surprise at the champion whom he
had selected. Douglas replied: "Gentlemen, you do not know Mr. Lincoln.
I have known him long and well, and I know that I shall have anything
but an easy task. I assure you I _would rather meet any other man in the
country than Abraham Lincoln."_ This was Douglas's mature opinion of
the man of whom, years before, he had said, in his characteristic way:
"Of all the d----d Whig rascals about Springfield, Abe Lincoln is the
ablest and honestest." On another occasion, Douglas said: "I have known
Lincoln for nearly twenty-five years. There were many points of sympathy
between us when we first got acquainted. We were both comparatively
boys, and both struggling with poverty in a strange land. I was a
school-teacher in the town of Winchester, and he a flourishing
grocery-keeper in the town of Salem. He was more successful in his
occupation than I was in mine, and hence more fortunate in the world's
goods. Lincoln is one of those peculiar men who perform with admirable
skill everything they undertake. I made as good a school-teacher as I
could, and when a cabinet-maker I made as good bedsteads and tables as I
could--although my old boss says that I succeeded better with _bureaus_
and _secretaries_ than with anything else. But I believe that Lincoln
was always more successful in business than I, for his business enabled
him to get into the Legislature. I met him there, however, and had a
sympathy with him because of the up-hill struggle we both had had in
life. He was then just as good at telling an anecdote as now. He could
beat any of the boys in wrestling or running a foot-race, in pitching
quoits or pitching a copper; and the dignity and impartiality with which
he presided at a horse-race or fist-fight excited the admiration and won
the praise of everybody that was present. I sympathized with him because
he was struggling with difficulties, and so was I. Mr. Lincoln served
with me in the Legislature of 1836; then we both retired, and he
subsided, or became submerged, and was lost sight of as a public man for
some years. In 1846, when Wilmot introduced his celebrated proviso, and
the Abolition tornado swept over the country, Lincoln again turned up as
a Member of Congress from the Sangamon district. I was then in the
Senate of the United States, and was glad to welcome my old friend."
Lincoln, in a speech delivered two years before the joint debate, had
spoken thus of Senator Douglas: "Twenty-two years ago, Judge Douglas and
I first became acquainted; we were both young then--he a trifle younger
than I. Even then, we were both ambitious--I perhaps quite as much as
he. With me, the race of ambition has been a failure--a flat failure;
with him, it has been one of splendid success. His name fills the
nation, and is not unknown even in foreign lands. I affect no contempt
for the high eminence he has reached; so reached that the oppressed of
my species might have shared with me in the elevation, I would rather
stand on that eminence than wear the richest crown that ever pressed a
monarch's brow."
A few days before the first discussion was to take place, Lincoln, who
had become conscious that some of his party friends distrusted his
ability to meet successfully a man who, as the Democrats declared and
believed, had never had his equal on the stump, met an old friend from
Vermilion County, and, shaking hands, inquired the news. His friend
replied, "All looks well; our friends are wide awake, but they are
looking forward with some anxiety to these approaching joint discussions
with Douglas." A shade passed over Lincoln's face, a sad expression came
and instantly passed, and then a blaze of light flashed from his eyes,
and with his lips compressed and in a manner peculiar to him, half
serious and half jocular, he said: "My friend, sit down a minute, and I
will tell you a story. You and I, as we have travelled the circuit
together attending court, have often seen two men about to fight. One of
them, the big or the little giant, as the case may be, is noisy and
boastful; he jumps high in the air, strikes his feet together, smites
his fists, brags about what he is going to do, and tries hard to
'_skeer_' the other man. The other man says not a word; his arms are at
his side, his fists are clenched, his teeth set, his head settled firmly
on his shoulders; he saves his breath and strength for the struggle.
_This man will whip,_ as sure as the fight comes off. Good-bye, and
remember what I say."
The spirit and purpose with which Lincoln went into the contest are
shown also in the following words: "I shall not ask any favors at all.
Judge Douglas asks me if I wish to push this matter to the point of
personal difficulty. I tell him, _No!_ He did not make a mistake, in one
of his early speeches, when he called me an 'amiable' man, though
perhaps he did when he called me an 'intelligent' man. I again tell him,
_No!_ I very much prefer, when this canvass shall be over, however it
may result, that we at least part without any bitter recollections of
personal difficulties."
The speeches in these joint discussions were entirely extemporaneous in
form, yet they were reported and printed in all the prominent papers in
the West, and found eager readers throughout the country. The voice and
manner, which add so much to the effect of a speaker, could not be
reproduced on the printed page; nor could full justice be done, in a
hasty transcript, to the force and fitness of the language employed.
Still, the impressions of those who heard them at the time, as well as
later and cooler analyses of them, have agreed in pronouncing these
debates among the most able and interesting on record. The scenes
connected with the different meetings were intensely exciting. Vast
throngs were invariably in attendance, while a whole nation was watching
the result. "At Freeport," says an observer, "Mr. Douglas appeared in an
elegant barouche drawn by four white horses, and was received with great
applause. But when Mr. Lincoln came up, in a 'prairie schooner,'--an
old-fashioned canvas-covered pioneer wagon,--the enthusiasm of the vast
throng was unbounded."
At Charleston Lincoln opened and closed the day's debate. It was the
fourth discussion, and there was no more doubt of his ability to sustain
the conflict. According to Mr. Arnold, "Douglas's reply to Lincoln was
mainly a defense. Lincoln's close was intensely interesting and
dramatic. His logic and arguments were crushing, and Douglas's evasions
were exposed with a power and clearness that left him utterly
discomfited. Republicans saw it. Democrats realized it, and a sort of
panic seized them, and ran through the crowd of upturned faces. Douglas
realized his defeat, and, as Lincoln's blows fell fast and heavy, he
lost his temper. He could not keep his seat; he rose and walked rapidly
up and down the platform, behind Lincoln, holding his watch in his hand,
and obviously impatient for the call of _'time.'_ A spectator says: 'He
was greatly agitated, his long grizzled hair waving in the wind, like
the shaggy locks of an enraged lion.' It was while Douglas was thus
exhibiting to the crowd his eager desire to stop Lincoln, that the
latter, holding the audience entranced by his eloquence, was striking
his heaviest blows. The instant the secondhand of his watch reached the
point at which Lincoln's time was up, Douglas, holding up the watch,
called out: 'Sit down, Lincoln, sit down! Your time is up!' Turning to
Douglas, Lincoln said calmly: 'I will. I _will_ quit. I believe my time
_is_ up.' 'Yes,' said a voice from the platform, 'Douglas has had
enough; it is time you let up on him.'"
The institution of slavery was, of course, the topic around which
circled all the arguments in these joint discussions. It was the great
topic of the hour--the important point of division between the
Republican and Democratic parties. Lincoln's exposition of the subject
was profound and masterly. At the meeting in Quincy the issue was
defined and the argument driven home with unsparing logic and
directness. In closing the debate, he said:
I wish to return to Judge Douglas my profound thanks for his
public annunciation here to-day, to be put on record, that his
system of policy in regard to the institution of slavery
contemplates that it shall last _forever_. We are getting a
little nearer the true issue of this controversy, and I am
profoundly grateful for this one sentence. Judge Douglas asks
you, 'Why cannot the institution of slavery, or, rather, why
cannot the nation, part slave and part free, continue as our
fathers made it forever?' In the first place, I insist that our
fathers _did not_ make this nation half slave and half free, or
part slave and part free. I insist that they found the
institution of slavery existing here. They did not make it so,
but they left it so, because they knew of no way to get rid of it
at that time. When Judge Douglas undertakes to say that, as a
matter of choice, the fathers of the Government made this nation
part slave and part free, he assumes what is historically a
_falsehood_. More than that; when the fathers of the Government
cut off the source of slavery by the abolition of the
slave-trade, and adopted a system of restricting it from the new
Territories where it had not existed, I maintain that they placed
it where they understood, and all sensible men understood, it was
in the course of ultimate extinction; and when Judge Douglas asks
me why it cannot continue as our fathers made it, I ask him why
he and his friends could not let it remain as our friends made
it? It is precisely all I ask of him in relation to the
institution of slavery, that it shall be placed upon the basis
that our fathers placed it upon. Mr. Brooks, of South Carolina,
once said, and truly said, that when this Government was
established, no one expected the institution of slavery to last
until this day; and that the men who formed this Government were
wiser and better than the men of these days; but the men of these
days had experience which the fathers had not, and that
experience had taught them the invention of the cotton-gin, and
this had made the perpetuation of the institution of slavery a
necessity in this country. Judge Douglas could not let it stand
upon the basis on which our fathers placed it, but removed it,
and put it upon the cotton-gin basis. It is a question,
therefore, for him and his friends to answer--why they could not
let it remain where the fathers of the Government originally
placed it.
In these debates Lincoln often seemed like one transfigured--carried
away by his own eloquence and the force of his conviction. He said to a
friend during the canvass: "Sometimes, in the excitement of speaking, I
seem to see the end of slavery. I feel that the time is soon coming when
the sun shall shine, the rain shall fall, on no man who shall go forth
to unrequited toil.... How this will come, when it will come, by whom it
will come, I cannot tell;--but that time will surely come." Again, at
the first encounter at Alton, he uttered these pregnant sentences:
On this subject of treating slavery as a wrong, and limiting its
spread, let me say a word. Has anything ever threatened the
existence of this Union save and except this very institution of
slavery? What is it that we hold most dear among us? Our own
liberty and prosperity. What has ever threatened our liberty and
prosperity, save and except this institution of slavery? If this
is true, how do you propose to improve the condition of things by
enlarging slavery?--by spreading it out and making it bigger? You
may have a wen or cancer upon your person, and not be able to cut
it out lest you bleed, to death; but surely it is no way to cure
it to ingraft it and spread it over your whole body--that is no
proper way of treating what you regard a wrong. This peaceful way
of dealing with it as a wrong--restricting the spread of it, and
not allowing it to go into new countries where it has not already
existed--that is the peaceful way, the old-fashioned way, the way
in which the fathers themselves set us the example. Is slavery
wrong? That is the real issue. That is the issue that will
continue in this country when these poor tongues of Judge Douglas
and myself shall be silent. It is the eternal struggle between
these two principles--right and wrong--throughout the world. They
are two principles that have stood face to face from the
beginning of time; and will ever continue to struggle. The one is
the common right of humanity, and the other the divine right of
kings. It is the same principle, in whatever shape it develops
itself. It is the same spirit that says: 'You work, and toil, and
earn bread, and I'll eat it.' No matter in what shape it comes,
whether from the mouth of a king who seeks to bestride the people
of his own nation and live by the fruit of their labor, or from
one race of men as an apology for enslaving another race, it is
the same tyrannical principle.
On still another occasion he used these unmistakable words:
My declarations upon this subject of negro slavery may be
misrepresented, but cannot be misunderstood. I have said that I
do not understand the Declaration to mean that all men were
created equal in all respects. They are not our equal in color.
But I suppose that it does mean to declare that all men are
created equal in some respects; they are equal in their right to
'life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.' Certainly the
negro is not our equal in color, perhaps not in many other
respects; still, _in the right to put into his mouth the bread
that his own hands have earned, he is the equal of every other
man, white or black_.
It is not in the scope of this narrative to print extended quotations
from the speeches made in this memorable contest, but rather to give
such reminiscences and anecdotes, and description by eye-witnesses, as
will best serve to bring the scenes and actors vividly to mind.
Fortunately, many such records are still in existence, and from them
some most entertaining personal accounts have been obtained. Among these
is an impressive pen-picture of Lincoln on the stump, as admirably
sketched by the Rev. Dr. George C. Noyes, of Chicago. "Mr. Lincoln in
repose," says Dr. Noyes, "was a very different man in personal
appearance from Mr. Lincoln on the platform or on the stump, when his
whole nature was roused by his masterful interest in the subject of his
discourse. In the former case he was, as has often been described, a man
of awkward and ungainly appearance and exceedingly homely countenance.
In the latter case, he was a man of magnificent presence and remarkably
impressive manner. The writer retains to this day a very vivid
impression of his appearance in both these characters, and both on the
same day. It was in Jacksonville, in the summer of 1858, and during the
great contest with Douglas, when the prize contended for was a seat in
the United States Senate. The day was warm; the streets were dusty, and
filled with great crowds of people. When Lincoln arrived on the train
from Springfield, he was met by an immense procession of people on
horseback, in carriages, in wagons and vehicles of every description,
and on foot, who escorted him through the principal streets to his
hotel. The enthusiasm of the multitude was great; but Lincoln's
extremely homely face wore an expression of sadness. He rode in a
carriage near the head of the procession, looking dust-begrimed and worn
and weary; and though he frequently lifted his hat in recognition of the
cheers of the crowds lining the streets, I saw no smile on his face, and
he seemed to take no pleasure in the demonstrations of enthusiasm which
his presence called forth. His clothes were very ill-fitting, and his
long arms and hands protruded far through his coat sleeves, giving him a
peculiarly uncouth appearance. Though I had often seen him before, and
had heard him in court--always with delight in his clearness and cogency
of statement, his illuminating humor, and his conspicuous fairness and
candor--yet I had never before seen him when he appeared so homely; and
I thought him about the ugliest man I had ever seen. There was nothing
in his looks or manner that was prepossessing. Such he appeared as he
rode in the procession on the forenoon of that warm summer day. His
appearance was not different in the afternoon of that day, when, in the
public square, he first stood before the great multitude who had
assembled there to hear him. His powers were aroused gradually as he
went on with his speech. There was much play of humor. 'Judge Douglas
has,' he said, 'one great advantage of me in this contest. When he
stands before his admiring friends, who gather in great numbers to hear
him, they can easily see, with half an eye, all kinds of _fat offices_
sprouting out of his fat and jocund face, and, indeed, from every part
of his plump and well-rounded body. His appearance is therefore
irresistibly attractive. His friends expect him to be President, and
they expect their reward. But when I stand before the people, not the
sharpest vision is able to detect in my lean and lank person, or in my
sunken and hollow cheeks, _the faintest sign or promise_ of an office. I
am not a candidate for the Presidency, and hence there is no beauty in
me that men should desire me.' The crowd was convulsed with laughter at
this sally. As the speech went on, the speaker, though often impressing
his points with apposite and laughter-provoking stories, grew more and
more earnest. He showed that the government was founded in the interest
of freedom, not slavery. He traced the steady aggressions of the slave
power step by step, until he came to declare and to dwell upon the fact
of the irrepressible conflict between the two. Then, as he went on to
show, with wonderful eloquence of speech and of manner, that the country
must and would ultimately become, not all slave, but all free, he was
transfigured before his audience. His homely countenance fairly glowed
with the splendor of his prophetic speech; and his body, no longer
awkward and ungainly, but mastered and swayed by his thought, became an
obedient and graceful instrument of eloquent expression. The whole man
seemed to speak. He seemed like some grand Hebrew prophet, whose face
was glorified by the bright visions of a better day which he saw and
declared. His eloquence was not merely that of clear and luminous
statement, felicitous illustration, or excited yet restrained feeling;
it was the eloquence also of _thought_. With something of the
imaginative, he united rare dialectic power. He felt the truth before he
expounded it; but when once it was felt by him, then his logical power
came into remarkably effective play. Step by step he led his hearers
onward, till at last he placed them on the summit whence they could see
all the landscape of his subject in harmonious and connected order. Of
these two contrasted pictures of Lincoln, it is only the last which
shows him as he was in his real and essential greatness. And not this
fully; for it was in his character that he was greatest. He was not
merely a thinker, but a thinker for man, directing his thought to the
ends of justice, freedom, and humanity. If he desired and sought high
position, it was only that he might thus better serve the cause of
freedom to which he was devoted. From the time when he withdrew, in a
spirit of magnanimity that was never appreciated, in favor of a rival
candidate for the United States Senate, it was evident that the _cause_
was more to him than any personal advantage or advancement."
Another graphic description of Lincoln's appearance and manner on the
stump is given by Mr. Jeriah Bonham, whose account of the famous
"house-divided-against-itself" speech has already found a place in this
narrative. "When Mr. Lincoln took the stand," says Mr. Bonham, "he did
not, on rising, show his full height, but stood in a stooping posture,
his long-tailed coat hanging loosely around his body, and descending
over an ill-fitting pair of pantaloons that covered his not very
symmetrical legs. He began his speech in a rather diffident manner,
seeming for awhile at a loss for words; his voice was irregular, even a
little tremulous, as he began his argument. As he proceeded he seemed to
gain more confidence, his form straightened up, his face brightened, his
language became free and animated. Soon he had drawn the attention of
the crowd by two or three well-told stories that illustrated his
argument; and then he became eloquent, carrying his audience at will, as
tumultuous applause greeted every telling point he made."
Mrs. John A. Logan, in her "Recollections of a Soldier's Wife," says: "I
always like to think of Mr. Lincoln as he was when I saw him with the
eyes of an opponent. His awkwardness has not been exaggerated, but it
gave no effect of self-consciousness. There was something about his
ungainliness and his homely face which would have made anyone who simply
passed him in the street remember him. His very awkwardness was an asset
in public life, in that it attracted attention to him. Douglas, on the
other hand, won by the magnetism of his personality. Lincoln did not
_seem_ to have any magnetism, though of course he actually did have the
rarest and most precious kind. Give Mr. Lincoln five minutes and Mr.
Douglas five minutes before an audience which knew neither, and Mr.
Douglas would make the greater impression. But give them each an hour,
and the contrary would be true."
In the party that attended Lincoln in the Senatorial campaign was the
Hon. Andrew Shuman, afterwards Lieutenant-Governor of Illinois and one
of the veteran journalists of Chicago. Mr. Shuman was detailed to report
the joint debates for his paper; and he accompanied Lincoln through
nearly all of the campaign, travelling with him by night--sometimes
occupying the same room, and when in crowded quarters the same bed. He
thus saw much of Lincoln, and had the best of opportunities for studying
his character; not only hearing all his public speeches, but having long
conversations with him in private, and listening to the stories,
anecdotes, and gay or grave discourse by which the journeys and the
frequent "waits" were enlivened. The group consisted of several
gentlemen, including Norman B. Judd of Chicago, afterwards a member of
Congress; Robert R. Hitt, who was Lincoln's shorthand reporter,
afterwards member of Congress from Illinois; Mr. Villard, later the
President of the Northern Pacific Railroad, then a newspaper
correspondent; Mr. Shuman; and, at various times, other politicians and
journalists. Of this party Lincoln was always the leading spirit in
conversation. He would tell stories himself, and draw out stories from
others; and his laugh, though not the loudest, was always the heartiest.
Then he would pass to soberer themes, and discuss them with a tinge of
that melancholy which, however he might be surrounded, never seemed far
distant from him. At night, stopping at the country tavern or at some
friend's house, the evenings would be spent in discussion and
story-telling, or perhaps in a humorous review of the events of the
day; and after retiring, Lincoln would entertain his companion, often
far into the night, discoursing on many varied subjects,--politics,
literature, views of human life and character, or the prominent men and
measures then before the country.
One day, according to Governor Shuman, Lincoln had been announced to
speak in a town in the extreme southern part of Illinois, in the very
heart of "Egypt," where there was a strong pro-slavery sentiment; and
it was feared there might be trouble, as Lincoln's anti-slavery
tendencies were well known. To make matters worse, a party of
Kentuckians and Missourians had come over to attend the meeting, and
it was noised about that they would not allow Lincoln to speak. He
heard of it, and both he and his friends were somewhat apprehensive of
trouble. The place of the meeting was a grove in the edge of the town,
the speakers occupying an improvised stand. The gathering was a large
one, and it had every appearance of a Southern crowd. It was customary
in those times for the men in that section of the country to carry
pistols and ugly-looking knives strapped to their persons, on public
occasions. It was a semi-barbarous community, and their hatred of the
Abolitionists, as they called all anti-slavery men, was as intense as
was their love of bad whiskey. Lincoln privately told his friends, who
in that locality were very few in number, that "if only they will give
me a fair chance to say a few opening words, I'll fix them all right."
Before mounting the speaker's stand he was introduced to many of the
crowd, and shook their hands in the usual Western way. Getting a small
company of the rough-looking fellows around him, he opened on them.
"Fellow-citizens of Southern Illinois--fellow-citizens of the State of
Kentucky--fellow-citizens of Missouri," he said, in a tone more of
conversation than of oratory, looking them straight in the eye, "I am
told that there are some of you here present who would like to make
trouble for me. I don't understand why they should. I am a plain,
common man, like the rest of you; and why should not I have as good a
right to speak my sentiments as the rest of you? Why, good friends, I
am one of you; I am not an interloper here! I was born in Kentucky,
raised in Illinois, just like the most of you, and worked my way right
along by hard scratching. I know the people of Kentucky, and I know
the people of Southern Illinois, and I think I know the Missourians. I
am one of them, and therefore ought to know them, and they ought to
know me better, and if they did know me better they would know that I
am not disposed to make them trouble; then why should they, or any one
of them, want to make trouble for me? Don't do any such foolish thing,
fellow-citizens. Let us be friends, and treat each other like friends.
I am one of the humblest and most peaceable men in the world--would
wrong no man, would interfere with no man's rights; and all I ask is
that, having something to say, you will give me a decent hearing. And,
being Illinoisans, Kentuckians, and Missourians--brave and gallant
people--I feel sure that you will do that. And now let us reason
together, like the honest fellows we are." Having uttered these words,
his face the very picture of good-nature and his voice full of
sympathetic earnestness, he mounted the speaker's stand and proceeded
to make one of the most impressive speeches against the further
extension of slavery that he ever made in his life. He was listened to
attentively; was applauded when he indulged in flashes of humor, and
once or twice his eloquent passages were lustily cheered. His little
opening remarks had calmed the threatening storm, had conquered his
enemies, and he had smooth sailing. From that day to the time of his
death, Abraham Lincoln held a warm place in the respect of very many
of those rough and rude "Egyptians," and he had no warmer supporters
for the Presidency, or while he was President, than they were.
Mr. Leonard Volk, the sculptor who afterwards made an excellent bust of
Lincoln, says: "My first meeting with Abraham Lincoln was in 1858, when
the celebrated Senatorial contest opened between him and Stephen A.
Douglas. I was invited by the latter to accompany him and his party by a
special train to Springfield, to which train was attached a platform-car
having on board a cannon, which made considerable noise on the journey.
At Bloomington we all stopped over night, as Douglas had a speech to
make there in the evening. The party went to the Landon House--the only
hotel, I believe, in the place at that time. While we were sitting in
the hotel office after supper, Mr. Lincoln entered, carrying an old
carpet-bag in his hand, and wearing a weather-beaten silk hat--too
large, apparently, for his head--a long, loosely-fitting frock-coat of
black alpaca, and vest and trousers of the same material. He walked up
to the counter, and, saluting the clerk pleasantly, passed the bag over
to him, and inquired if he was too late for supper. The clerk replied
that supper was over, but perhaps enough could be 'scraped up' for him.
'All right,' said Mr. Lincoln; 'I don't want much.' Meanwhile, he said,
he would wash the dust off. He was certainly very dusty; it was the
month of June, and quite warm. While he was so engaged, several old
friends, who had learned of his arrival, rushed in to see him, some of
them shouting, 'How are you, Old Abe?' Mr. Lincoln grasped them by the
hand in his cordial manner, with the broadest and pleasantest smile on
his rugged face. This was the first good view I had of the 'coming man.'
The next day we all stopped at the town of Lincoln, where short speeches
were made by the contestants, and dinner was served at the hotel; after
which, as Mr. Lincoln came out on the plank-walk in front, I was
formally presented to him. He saluted me with his natural cordiality,
grasping my hand in both his large hands with a vice-like grip, and
looking down into my face with his beaming, dark, full eyes, said: 'How
do you do? I am glad to meet you. I have read of you in the papers. You
are making a statue of Judge Douglas for Governor Matteson's new house.'
'Yes, sir,' I answered; 'and sometime when you are in Chicago, and can
spare the time, I would like to have you sit to me for a bust.' 'Yes, I
will, Mr. Volk; I shall be glad to, the first opportunity I have.' All
were soon on board the long train, crowded with people, going to hear
the speeches at Springfield. The train stopped on the track, near
Edward's Grove, in the northern outskirts of the town, where staging was
erected and a vast crowd waited under the shade of the trees. On leaving
the train, most of the passengers climbed over the fences and crossed
the stubble-field, taking a short-cut to the grove,--among them Mr.
Lincoln, who stalked forward alone, taking immense strides, the
before-mentioned carpet-bag and an umbrella in his hands, and his coat
skirts flying in the breeze. I managed to keep pretty close in the rear
of the tall, gaunt figure, with the head craned forward, apparently much
over the balance, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, that was moving
something like a hurricane across that rough stubble-field."
The contest between Lincoln and Douglas seemed to be, as expressed by
Dr. Newton Bateman, "one between sharpness and greatness." Lincoln
seemed to Dr. Bateman, "a man strongly possessed by a belief to which he
was earnestly striving to win the people over; while the aim of Mr.
Douglas seemed rather to be simply to defeat Mr. Lincoln." Yet, although
Lincoln was usually earnest and considerate of his opponent, he could,
when occasion required, bring his powers of humor and sarcasm into play
in a very effective manner. A few pointed illustrations may be given. In
his speech at Galesburg, Douglas sneeringly informed the citizens that
"Honest Abe" had been a liquor-seller. Lincoln met this with the candid
admission that once in early life he had, under the pressure of poverty,
accepted and for a few months held a position in a store where it was
necessary for him to retail liquor. "But the difference between Judge
Douglas and myself is just this," he added, "that while I was _behind_
the bar, he was _in front_ of it."
At the close of the joint discussion at Alton, Douglas led off with a
speech an hour long, in which he showed no little irritability. The
campaign was evidently wearing on him. Lincoln, on the contrary, was in
capital spirits. "He sat taking in the speech of Douglas with seeming
immobility," says Mr. Jeriah Bonham, who was present, "and when it was
ended, he rose to reply. As in the opening of all his speeches, he spoke
slowly, did not rise to his full height, leaning forward in a stooping
posture at first, his person showing all the angularities of limb and
face. For the first five or ten minutes he was both awkward and
diffident, as in almost monotonous tones he began to untangle the meshes
of Douglas's sophistry. Proceeding, he gained confidence gradually; his
voice rang out strong and clear; his tall form towered to its full
height; his face grew radiant with impassioned feeling, as he poured
forth an outburst of crushing argument and inspiring eloquence. The
people became wild with enthusiasm, but his voice rang loud above their
cheers. Frequently in his speech he would turn toward Douglas, and say
with emphasis, 'You _know_ these things are so, Mr. Douglas!' or 'You
know these things are _not_ so, Mr. Douglas!' At one time he bent his
long body over his adversary, pouring in his arguments so sharply, that
Douglas, chafing under the attack, rose to explain; but Lincoln would
not allow it. 'Sit down, Mr. Douglas!' said he peremptorily. 'I did not
interrupt you, and you shall not interrupt me. You will have
opportunity to reply to me--if you can--in your closing speech.'"
A good story is told of the occasion on which Lincoln and Douglas spoke
in Chicago. A well-known citizen who on account of his age was known
familiarly as "Father Brewster"--a man of standing, and a member of the
Board of Education--was one of the listeners on the platform. Lincoln
admired the old gentleman very much, and the admiration was mutual. They
sat together while Douglas made the opening speech. He spoke for more
than an hour, and never more brilliantly. When Lincoln's turn came he
could see that Father Brewster was exceedingly anxious as to the
outcome. Lincoln arose, let out all the joints in his long body, slowly
removed his overcoat and laid it across Mr. Brewster's knees. "Father
Brewster," he said, "will you hold my overcoat _while I stone Stephen?_"
Everybody shouted and cheered, and even Douglas joined in the laugh at
his own expense.
Beneath the humors and excitements of the campaign, the prevailing tone
of Lincoln's thought was deeply serious and reflective. Toward the
close, when indications pointed to his defeat for the Senate, he seemed
somewhat depressed, and occasionally his old habitual melancholy would
steal over him and impart to his words a touching pathos. On such an
occasion, in one of the smaller cities of Illinois, Douglas, having the
first speech, made an unusually brilliant effort. He carried the crowd
with him; and when Lincoln rose to reply, it was evident that he felt
his disadvantage--felt, too, that do what he would final defeat was
probable. He made a good speech, but not one of his best. Concluding his
argument, he stopped and stood silent for a moment, looking around upon
the throng of half-indifferent, half-friendly faces before him, with
those deep-sunken weary eyes that always seemed full of unshed tears.
Folding his hands, as if they too were tired of the hopeless fight, he
said, in his peculiar monotone: "My friends, it makes little
difference, very little difference, whether Judge Douglas or myself is
elected to the United States Senate; but the great issue which we have
submitted to you to-day is far above and beyond any personal interests
or the political fortunes of any man. And, my friends, that issue will
live and breathe and burn when the poor, feeble, stammering tongues of
Judge Douglas and myself are silent in the grave." The crowd swayed as
if smitten by a mighty wind. The simple words, and the manner in which
they were spoken, touched every heart to the core.
Lincoln spoke in all about fifty times during the campaign. At its
close, says Mr. Arnold, "both Douglas and Lincoln visited Chicago.
Douglas was so hoarse that he could hardly articulate, and it was
painful to hear him attempt to speak. Lincoln's voice was clear and
vigorous, and he really seemed in better tone than usual. His dark
complexion was bronzed by the prairie sun and winds; his eye was clear,
his step firm, and he looked like a trained athlete, ready to enter,
rather than one who had closed, a conflict."
Of the speeches in this campaign, Mr. Henry J. Raymond, the
distinguished journalist, pronounced the following well-considered
opinion: "While Douglas fully sustained his previous reputation, and
justified the estimate his friends had placed upon his abilities, he
labored under the comparative disadvantage of being much better known to
the country at large than was his antagonist. During his long public
career, people had become partially accustomed to his manner of
presenting arguments and enforcing them. The novelty and freshness of
Lincoln's addresses, on the other hand, the homeliness and force of his
illustrations, their wonderful pertinence, his exhaustless humor, his
confidence in his own resources, engendered by his firm belief in the
justice of the cause he so ably advocated, never once rising, however,
to the point of arrogance or superciliousness, fastened upon him the
eyes of the people everywhere, friends and opponents alike. It was not
strange that more than once, during the course of the unparalleled
excitement which marked this canvass, Douglas should have been thrown
off his guard by the singular self-possession displayed by his
antagonist, and by the imperturbable firmness with which he maintained
and defended a position once taken. The unassuming confidence which
marked Lincoln's conduct was early imparted to his supporters, and each
succeeding encounter added largely to the number of his friends, until
they began to indulge the hope that a triumph might be secured in spite
of the adverse circumstances under which the struggle was commenced."
Samuel Bowles, editor of the Springfield (Mass.) "Republican," said that
Lincoln "handled Douglas as he would an eel--by main strength.
Sometimes, perhaps, he handled him so strongly that he _slipped through
his fingers_."
"In this canvass," says Mr. Lamon, "Mr. Lincoln earned a reputation as a
popular debater second to that of no man in America--certainly not
second to that of his famous antagonist. He kept his temper; he was not
prone to personalities; he was fair, frank, and manly; and, if the
contest had shown nothing else, it would have shown at least that 'Old
Abe' could behave like a gentleman under very trying circumstances. His
marked success in these discussions was probably no surprise to the
people of the Springfield district, who knew him as well as they did Mr.
Douglas, or even better. But in the greater part of the State, and
throughout the Union, the series of brilliant victories successively won
by an obscure man over an orator of such wide experience and renown was
received with exclamations of astonishment alike by listeners and
readers."
Caleb Cushing, the distinguished Massachusetts lawyer, was one of those
acute minds whose attention was attracted to Lincoln by his debates
with Douglas. Mr. Cushing said that these debates showed Lincoln to be
the superior of Douglas "in every vital element of power"; and added
that "the world does not yet know how much of a man Lincoln really is."
It was soon to know him much more clearly. In less than two years after
the great debate this lately obscure Illinois lawyer was elected
President of the United States.