Lincoln's Second Presidential Term--His Attitude toward it--Rival
Candidates for the Nomination--Chase's Achillean Wrath--Harmony
Restored--The Baltimore Convention--Decision "not to Swap Horses
while Crossing a Stream"--The Summer of 1864--Washington again
Threatened--Lincoln under Fire--Unpopular Measures--The President's
Perplexities and Trials--The Famous Letter "To Whom It May
Concern"--Little Expectation of Re-election--Dangers of
Assassination--"A Thrilling Experience"--Lincoln's Forced
Serenity--"The Saddest Man in the World"--A Break in the
Clouds--Lincoln Vindicated by Re-election--Cheered and
Reassured--More Trouble with Chase--Lincoln's Final Disposal of
him--The President's Fourth Annual Message--His Position toward the
Rebellion and Slavery Reaffirmed--Colored Folks' Reception at the
White House--Passage of the Amendment Prohibiting Slavery--Lincoln
and the Southern Peace Commissioners--The Meeting in Hampton
Roads--Lincoln's Impression of A H. Stephens--The Second
Inauguration--Second Inaugural Address--"With Malice toward None,
with Charity for All"--An Auspicious Omen.
The year 1864 witnessed another Presidential election, and one which
was attended by the most novel and extraordinary circumstances. It was
held while a considerable portion of the people were engaged in armed
rebellion against the authority of the National Government; and it was
not participated in by the voters of several entire States. Aside from
these unique features, it marked a most critical epoch in the history
of the country, and in that of Abraham Lincoln as well. The policy and
acts of the administration, even the question of the further
prosecution of the war, were to be submitted to the sovereign tribunal
of the people; and with their verdict would be recorded also the
popular measure of approval or disapproval of President Lincoln. Those
who knew him best during his first official term pronounce him
singularly free from plans and calculations regarding his own
political future. He was too absorbed in public cares and duties, too
nearly crushed by the great burdens resting upon him, to give thought
or attention to questions of personal ambition. It had never been his
aim, during his Presidential life, to look far ahead. He was content
to deal wisely and soberly with important questions as they arose from
day to day and hour to hour; to adapt himself and his actions to the
exigencies of the present, and in that way to earn security for the
future. He himself said, using a forcible and apt illustration
borrowed from his early life: "The pilots on our Western rivers steer
from _point to point_, as they call it--setting the course of the boat
no farther than they can see; and that is all I propose to do in the
great problems that are set before me."
Such a policy as that outlined by Lincoln, embraced in his homely and
characteristic phrase of "pegging away," caused him to be greatly
misunderstood and even distrusted in some quarters. As the time for the
new election drew near, there was very pronounced dissatisfaction with
him, particularly in New England. It was said of him, among other
things, that he "lacked the essential qualities of a leader." Mr. Henry
Greenleaf Pearson, the biographer of Governor Andrew of Massachusetts,
illuminates this point in a few instructive sentences. "To comprehend
this objection, which to us seems so astonishingly wide of the mark,"
says Mr. Pearson, "we must realize that whenever a New Englander of that
generation uttered the word 'leader' his mind's eye was filled with the
image of Daniel Webster. Even those who called the fallen statesman
'Ichabod' could not forget his commanding presence, his lofty tone about
affairs of state, his sonorous professions of an ideal, his whole _ex
cathedra_ attitude. All these characteristics supplied the aristocratic
connotation of the word 'leader.' Of the broad democratic meaning of the
term, the world had as yet received no demonstration. That Lincoln was
in very truth the 'new birth of a new soil,' Lowell, with the advantage
of literary detachment, was one of the first to discover and proclaim,
both in his political essays and in the splendid stanzas of the
'Commemoration Ode.'"
While Lincoln seemingly gave little heed to the question of a second
Presidential term, it must not be inferred that he was indifferent
regarding it. His nature was one of those strong ones which, though
desiring approbation, are yet able to live without it. His whole life
had been a schooling in self-reliance and independence, and the last
three years especially had rendered him an adept in that stern
philosophy. But he was thoroughly human, and deep down in his nature was
a craving for human sympathy and support. Knowing that he had done his
best and was entitled to the full approval of his countrymen, he no
doubt felt that it would be a pleasant thing to receive that approval by
being called to serve them for another term. To one friend he remarked,
using his old figure of "the people's attorney," "If the people think I
have managed their case for them well enough to trust me to _carry it up
to the next term_, I am sure I shall be glad to take it." He evidently
dreaded the rebuke that would be implied in a failure to be renominated;
yet it seemed unbecoming to him, in the critical condition of the
country, to make any personal effort to that end. To these
considerations were added his extreme weariness and longing for release
from his oppressive burdens. He was also, as Mr. Welles records in his
Diary, "greatly importuned and pressed by cunning intrigues."
From these various complications, Lincoln's embarrassment and
perplexity as the time for holding the Republican Convention drew near
were extreme. A journalistic friend (Mr. J.M. Winchell), who had a
lengthy conversation with him on the subject, gives what is no doubt a
correct idea of his state of mind at that period. "Mr. Lincoln received
me," says Mr. Winchell, "kindly and courteously; but his manner was
quite changed. It was not now the country about which his anxiety
prevailed, but himself. There was an embarrassment about him which he
could not quite conceal. I thought it proper to state in the outset that
I wished simply to know whatever he was free to tell me in regard to his
own willingness or unwillingness to accept a renomination. The reply was
a monologue of an hour's duration, and one that wholly absorbed me, as
it seemed to absorb himself. He remained seated nearly all the time. He
was restless, often changing position, and occasionally, in some intense
moment, wheeling his body around in his chair and throwing a leg over
the arm. This was the only grotesque thing I recollect about him; his
voice and manner were very earnest, and he uttered no jokes and told no
anecdotes. He began by saying that as yet he was not a candidate for
renomination. He distinctly denied that he was a party to any effort to
that end, notwithstanding I knew that there were movements in his favor
in all parts of the Northern States. These movements were, of course,
without his prompting, as he positively assured me that with one or two
exceptions he had scarcely conversed on the subject with his most
intimate friends. He was not quite sure whether he desired a
renomination. Such had been the responsibility of the office--so
oppressive had he found its cares, so terrible its perplexities--that he
felt as though the moment when he could relinquish the burden and
retire to private life would be the sweetest he could possibly
experience. But, he said, he would not deny that a re-election would
also have its gratification to his feelings. He did not seek it, nor
would he do so; he did not desire it for any ambitious or selfish
purpose; but after the crisis the country was passing through under his
Presidency, and the efforts he had made conscientiously to discharge the
duties imposed upon him, it would be a very sweet satisfaction to him to
know that he had secured the approval of his fellow citizens and earned
the highest testimonial of confidence they could bestow. This was the
gist of the hour's monologue; and I believe he spoke sincerely. His
voice, his manner, gave his modest and sensible words a power of
conviction. He seldom looked me in the face while he was talking; he
seemed almost to be gazing into the future. I am sure it was not a
pleasant thing for him to seem to be speaking in his own behalf. For
himself, he affirmed that he should make no promises of office to anyone
as an inducement for support. If nominated and elected, he should be
grateful to his friends; but the interests of the country must always be
first considered."
The principal candidates talked of as successors to Lincoln were
Secretary Chase, General Frémont, and General Grant. Of the latter,
Lincoln said, with characteristic frankness and generosity: "If he could
be more useful as President in putting down the rebellion, I would be
content. He is pledged to our policy of emancipation and the employment
of negro soldiers; and if this policy is carried out, it will not make
much difference who is President." But General Grant's good sense
prevailed over his injudicious advisers, and he promptly refused to
allow his name to be presented to the convention.
The most formidable candidate for the Republican nomination was
Secretary Chase. The relations between him and the President had not
latterly been very harmonious; and the breach was greatly widened by a
bitter personal assault on Mr. Chase by General F.P. Blair, a newly
elected Congressman from Missouri, made on the floor of the House, about
the middle of April, under circumstances which led Mr. Chase to believe
that the President inspired, or at least approved, the attack. Mr. Chase
was very angry, and an open rupture between his friends and those of the
President was narrowly averted. Mr. Riddle, Congressman from Mr. Chase's
State (Ohio), relates that on the evening after General Blair's
offensive speech he was to accompany Mr. Chase on a visit to Baltimore.
"I was shown," says Mr. Riddle, "to the Secretary's private car, where I
found him alone and in a frenzy of rage. A copy of Blair's speech had
been shown him at the station, and I was the sole witness of his
Achillean wrath. He threatened to leave the train at once and send the
President his resignation; but was persuaded to go on to Baltimore. He
wished to forward his resignation from there, but concluded to withhold
it till his return to Washington the next day. At Baltimore," continues
Mr. Riddle, "I excused myself, and took the return train for Washington.
I did not overestimate the danger to the Union cause. It would be a
fatal error to defeat Mr. Lincoln at the Baltimore Convention; yet how
could he succeed, with the angry resignation of Mr. Chase, and the
defection of his friends--the powerful and aggressive radicals? Reaching
Washington, I went to the White House direct. I knew the President could
not have been a party to Blair's assault, and I wanted his personal
assurances to communicate to Mr. Chase at the earliest moment. I was
accompanied by Judge Spaulding, an eminent member of the House, fully
sharing Mr. Chase's confidence, and somewhat cool toward the President.
We found Mr. Lincoln drawn up behind his table, with papers before him,
quite grim, evidently prepared for the battle which he supposed awaited
him. Without taking a seat, hat in hand, I stated frankly, not without
emotion, the condition of affairs,--the public danger, my entire
confidence in him, my sole purpose there, the reason of Judge
Spaulding's presence, and that we were there in no way as
representatives of Mr. Chase. Mr. Lincoln was visibly affected. The
tones of confidence, sympathy, personal regard, were strangers to him at
that time. Softening, almost melting, he came round to us, shook our
hands again and again, returned to his place, and standing there, took
up and opened out, from their remote origin, the whole web of matters
connected with the present complication. He spoke an hour--calm, clear,
direct, simple. He reprehended Blair severely, and stated that he had no
knowledge of his speech until after Blair left Washington. We were
permitted to communicate this to Mr. Chase. He was satisfied with the
President's explanation, and at the Baltimore Convention my large
acquaintance enabled me to open the way for Governor Dennison of Ohio to
become its presiding officer. All recognized the good effect of the
organization of that body by the friends of Mr. Chase."
The National Republican Convention which met at Baltimore on the 8th of
June adopted resolutions heartily approving the course of the
administration and especially the policy of emancipation, and completed
its good work by nominating Abraham Lincoln as its candidate for
President for another term. Andrew Johnson, of Tennessee, was nominated
for Vice-President. That Lincoln was gratified at this proof of
confidence and esteem there can be no doubt. In his acceptance of the
nomination, he said, with the most delicate modesty: "I view this call
to a second term as in no wise more flattering to myself than as an
expression of the public judgment that I may better finish a difficult
work than could one less severely schooled to the task." And with
characteristic humor, he thanked a visiting delegation for their good
opinion of him, saying, "I have not permitted myself to conclude that I
am the best man in the country; but I am reminded of the old Dutch
farmer who remarked to a companion that _it was not best to swap horses
while crossing a stream_."
In July, 1864, great excitement and alarm were occasioned in
Washington by a body of Confederate cavalry under General Early, who
actually attacked the fortifications of the city, cut off its railroad
communication with the North, and ravaged the country about with fire
and sword. For several days skirmishing was going on between the
raiders and the troops in our fortifications. The fact that the
President himself was under fire from the enemy on this occasion gave
the episode a decided thrill of realism. He, with other government
officials--largely, no doubt, from motives of curiosity--visited the
scene of the disturbance and witnessed the miniature but sometimes
spirited engagements. Among these visitors was Secretary Welles, who
thus records his experiences (Diary, July 12, 1864): "Rode out today
to Fort Stevens. Looking out over the valley below, where the
continual popping of pickets was going on, I saw a line of our men
lying close near the bottom of the valley. Senator Wade came up beside
me. We went into the Fort, where we found the President, who was
sitting in the shade, his back against the parapet toward the
enemy.... As the firing from the Fort ceased, our men ran to the
charge and the Rebels fled. We could see them running across the
fields, seeking the woods on the brow of the opposite hills. Below,
we could see here and there some of our own men bearing away their
wounded comrades. Occasionally a bullet from some long-range rifle
passed over our heads. It was an interesting and exciting spectacle."
Another account says: "President Lincoln visited the lines in person,
and refused to retire, although urged to do so. He exposed himself
freely at Fort Stevens, and a surgeon standing alongside of him was
wounded by a ball which struck a gun and glanced." A gentleman named
Neill, who lived in the country, about twelve miles from the city,
gives a vivid conception of the imminence of the danger. "After
breakfast, on Tuesday, July 12," says Mr. Neill, "I went as usual in a
railway car to the city, and before noon my house was surrounded by
General Bradley Johnson's insurgent cavalry, who had made an attempt
to capture the New York express train, and had robbed the country
store near by of its contents. The presence of the cavalry stopped all
travel by railroad; and Senator Ramsey of Minnesota, who happened to
be in Washington, could find no way to the North except by descending
the Potomac to its mouth and then ascending Chesapeake Bay to
Baltimore. While the cavalry was in the fields around my home, the
enemy's infantry was marching toward the capital by what was called
the Seventh Street road, and they set fire to the residence of Hon.
Montgomery Blair, who had been Postmaster-General. As I sat in my room
at the President's, the smoke of the burning mansion was visible; but
business was transacted with as much quietness as if the foe were
hundreds of miles distant. Mr. Fox, the assistant Secretary of the
Navy, had in a private note informed the President that if there
should be a necessity for him to leave the city he would find a
steamer in readiness at the wharf at the foot of Sixth Street. About
one o'clock in the afternoon of each day of the skirmishing, the
President would enter his carriage, and drive to the forts, in the
suburbs, and watch the soldiers repulse the invaders." For several
days Washington was in great danger of capture. Nearly all the forces
had been sent forward to reinforce Grant, and the city was
comparatively defenseless. But its slender garrison, mostly raw
recruits, held out gallantly under the encouragement of the President,
until Grant sent a column to attack Early, who promptly withdrew, and
the crisis was over. This was the last time the enemy threatened the
national capital. From that time he had enough to do to defend
Richmond.
Lincoln labored under deep depression during the summer of 1864. The
Army of the Potomac achieved apparently very little in return for its
enormous expenditure of blood and treasure. Until the victories of
Farragut in Mobile Bay, late in August, and Sherman at Atlanta a few
days later, the gloom was unrelieved. The people were restless and
impatient, and vented their displeasure upon the administration, holding
it responsible for all reverses and disappointments, and giving grudging
praise for success at any point. The popular displeasure was increased
by the President's call for 500,000 additional troops, made July 18,--a
measure which some of his strongest friends deprecated, as likely to
jeopardize his re-election in November. "It is not a personal question
at all," said Lincoln. "It matters not what becomes of _me. We must have
the men_. If I go down, I intend to go like the Cumberland, with my
colors flying." To the question, When is the war to end? he said,
"Surely I feel as deep an interest in this question as any other can;
but I do not wish to name a day, a month, or a year, when it is to end.
We accepted this war _for an object_--a worthy object; and the war will
end _when that object is attained_. Under God, I hope it _never will
end until that time_."
The President's mind seemed constantly weighted with anxiety as to the
movements and fortunes of our armies in the field. He could not sleep at
night under this crushing load. Secretary Welles's Diary gives frequent
instances of this. Once, after an engagement between the Western armies,
the President, says Mr. Welles, "came to me with the latest news. He was
feeling badly. Tells me a despatch was sent to him at the Soldiers' Home
last night shortly after he got asleep, and so disturbed him that he had
no more rest, but arose and came to the city and passed the remainder of
the night awake and watchful." At another time, after a desperate battle
between Grant and Lee, Mr. Welles says: "The President came into my room
about one P.M. and told me he _had slept none last night._ He lay down
for a short time on the sofa in my room, and detailed all the news he
had gathered."
Ex-Governor Bross of Illinois furnishes an account of an interview with
Lincoln during this dark period: "The last time I saw Mr. Lincoln, till,
as a pallbearer, I accompanied his remains to their last resting-place,
was in the early part of August, 1864. It was directly after the
frightful disaster at Petersburg, and I was on my way to the front, to
recover, if possible, the body of my brother, Colonel John A. Bross, who
fell there at the head of his regiment. I found the President with a
large pile of documents before him. He laid down his pen and gave me a
cordial but rather melancholy welcome, asking anxiously for news from
the West. Neither of us could shut our eyes to the gloom which hung over
the entire country. The terrible losses of the Wilderness, and the awful
disaster at Petersburg, weighed heavily upon our spirits. To a question,
I answered that the people expected a still more vigorous prosecution
of the war; more troops and needful appliances would, if called for, be
forthcoming. 'I will tell you what the people want,' said the President,
'they want, and must have, _success_. But whether that come or not, I
shall stay _right here_ and do my duty. Here I shall be; and they may
come and hang me on that tree' (pointing out of the window to one),
'but, God helping me, I shall never desert my post.' This was said in a
way that assured me that these were the sentiments of his inmost soul."
The President, about this time, was greatly worried by Horace Greeley
and others, who importuned him to receive negotiations for peace from
the Confederate authorities. He at length said to Mr. Greeley, "I not
only intend a sincere effort for peace, but you shall be a personal
witness that it is made." On the same day that the call for additional
troops was made, the President issued, through Mr. Greeley, the famous
letter, "To Whom It May Concern," promising safe conduct to any person
or persons authorized to present "any proposition which embraces the
restoration of peace, the _integrity of the whole Union_, and the
_abandonment of slavery_." Nothing came of the proposed negotiations,
except to stop for a time the mischievous fault-finding; which was, of
course, the result aimed at by Lincoln. The act was severely condemned
by many Republicans; but Lincoln only said, "It is hardly fair for them
to say the letter amounts to _nothing_. It will shut up Greeley, and
satisfy the people who are clamoring for peace. That's _something_,
anyhow!"
So much blame was heaped upon the Government, and so great was the
dissatisfaction at the North, that Lincoln looked upon the election of
his competitor, General McClellan, and his own retirement, as not
improbable. An incident in evidence of his discouragement is related by
Secretary Welles. Entering the Executive office one day, Mr. Welles was
asked to write his name across the back of a sealed paper which the
President handed him. The names of several other members of the Cabinet
were already on the paper, with the dates of signature. After the
election, Lincoln opened the document in the presence of his Cabinet and
read to them its contents, as follows:
EXECUTIVE MANSION, WASHINGTON,
August 23, 1864.
This morning, as for some days past, it seems exceedingly probable
that this administration will not be re-elected. Then it will be my
duty to co-operate with the President-elect so as to save the Union
between the election and the inauguration.
A. LINCOLN.
By this careful prevision had Lincoln pledged himself to give to his
successor that unselfish and patriotic assistance of which he himself
had stood so sorely in need.
As the desperation of the South and the opposition to Lincoln at the
North increased, fears were entertained by his friends that an attempt
might be made upon his life. Lincoln himself paid but little heed to
these forebodings of evil. He said, philosophically: "I long ago made up
my mind that if anybody wants to kill me, he will do it. If I wore a
shirt of mail and kept myself surrounded by a bodyguard, it would be all
the same. There are a thousand ways of getting at a man if it is desired
that he should be killed. Besides, in this case, it seems to me, the man
who would succeed me would be just as objectionable to my enemies--if I
have any." One dark night, as he was going out with a friend, he took
along a heavy cane, remarking good-humoredly that "mother" (Mrs.
Lincoln) had "got a notion into her head that I shall be assassinated,
and to please her I take a cane when I go over to the War Department at
nights--when I don't forget it."
It is probable that the attempts upon the life of President Lincoln were
more numerous than is generally known. An incident of a very thrilling
character, which might easily have involved a shocking tragedy, is
related by Mr. John W. Nichols, who from the summer of 1862 until 1865
was one of the President's body-guard. "One night, about the middle of
August, 1864," says Mr. Nichols, "I was doing sentinel duty at the large
gate through which entrance was had to the grounds of the Soldiers'
Home, near Washington, where Mr. Lincoln spent much time in summer.
About eleven o'clock I heard a rifle-shot in the direction of the city,
and shortly afterwards I heard approaching hoof-beats. In two or three
minutes a horse came dashing up, and I recognized the belated President.
The horse he rode was a very spirited one, and was Mr. Lincoln's
favorite saddle-horse. As horse and rider approached the gate, I noticed
that the President was bareheaded. As soon as I had assisted him in
checking his steed, the President said to me: 'He came pretty near
getting away with me, didn't he? He got the bit in his teeth before I
could draw the rein.' I then asked him where his hat was; and he replied
that somebody had fired a gun off down at the foot of the hill, and that
his horse had become scared and had jerked his hat off. I led the animal
to the Executive Cottage, and the President dismounted and entered.
Thinking the affair rather strange, a corporal and myself started off to
investigate. When we reached the place whence the sound of the shot had
come--a point where the driveway intersects, with the main road--we
found the President's hat. It was a plain silk hat, and upon examination
we discovered a _bullet-hole_ through the crown. We searched the
locality thoroughly, but without avail. Next day I gave Mr. Lincoln his
hat, and called his attention to the bullet-hole. He made some humorous
remark, to the effect that it was made by some foolish marksman and was
not intended for him; but added that he wished nothing said about the
matter. We all felt confident it was an attempt to kill the President,
and after that he never rode alone."
Amidst his terrible trials, Lincoln often exhibited a forced and
sorrowful serenity, which many mistook for apathy. Even his oldest and
best friends were sometimes deceived in this way. Hon. Leonard Swett
relates a touching instance: "In the summer of 1864, when Grant was
pounding his way toward Richmond in those terrible battles of the
Wilderness, myself and wife were in Washington trying to do what little
two persons could do toward alleviating the sufferings of the maimed and
dying in the vast hospitals of that city. We tried to be thorough and
systematic. We took the first man we came to, brought him delicacies,
wrote letters to his friends, or did for him whatever else he most
needed; then the next man, and so on. Day after day cars and ambulances
were coming in, laden with untold sorrows for thousands of homes. After
weeks of this kind of experience my feelings became so wrought up that I
said to myself: The country cannot long endure this sacrifice. In mercy,
both to North and South, every man capable of bearing arms must be
hurried forward to Grant to end this, fearful slaughter at the earliest
possible moment. I went to President Lincoln at the White House, and
poured myself out to him. He was sitting by an open window; and as I
paused, a bird lit upon a branch just outside and was twittering and
singing most joyously. Mr. Lincoln, imitating the bird, said: '_Tweet,
tweet, tweet_; isn't he singing sweetly?' I felt as if my legs had been
cut from under me. I rose, took my hat, and said, 'I see the country is
safer than I thought.' As I moved toward the door, Mr. Lincoln called
out, in his hearty, familiar way, 'Here, Swett, come back and sit down.'
Then he went on: 'It is impossible for a man in my position not to have
thought of all those things. Weeks ago every man capable of bearing arms
was ordered to the front, and everything you have suggested has been
done.'"
The burdens borne by Lincoln seemed never to tell so seriously on his
strength and vitality as in this terrible battle-summer of 1864. For him
there had been no respite, no holiday. Others left the heat and dust of
Washington for rest and recuperation; but he remained at his post. The
demands upon him were incessant; one anxiety and excitement followed
another, and under the relentless strain even his sturdy strength began
to give way. "I sometimes fancy," said he, with pathetic good-humor,
"that every one of the numerous grist ground through here daily, from a
Senator seeking a war with France down to a poor woman after a place in
the Treasury Department, darted at me with thumb and finger, picked out
_their especial piece of my vitality_, and carried it off. When I get
through with such a day's work there is only one word which can express
my condition, and that is _flabbiness_." Once Mr. Brooks "found him
sitting in his chair so collapsed and weary that he did not look up or
speak when I addressed him. He put out his hand, mechanically, as if to
shake hands, when I told him I had come at his bidding. Presently he
roused a little, and remarked that he had had '_a mighty hard day_.'"
Mr. Riddle, who saw him at this period, after some months' absence, says
he was shocked, on gaining admission to the President, "by his
appearance--that of a _baited, cornered man_, always on the defense
against attacks that he could not openly meet and defy or punish." Mr.
Carpenter, an inmate of the White House, says: "Absorbed in his papers,
he would become unconscious of my presence, while I intently studied
every line and shade of expression in that furrowed face. There were
days when I could scarcely look into it without crying. During the first
week of the battles of the Wilderness he scarcely slept at all. Passing
through the main hall of the domestic apartment on one of these days, I
met him, clad in a long morning wrapper, pacing back and forth a narrow
passage leading to one of the windows, his hands behind him, great black
rings under his eyes, his head bent forward upon his breast,--altogether
such a picture of the effects of sorrow, care, and anxiety as would have
melted the hearts of the worst of his adversaries, who so mistakenly
applied to him the epithets of tyrant and usurper."
Mr. Edward Dicey, the English historian, says: "Never in my knowledge
have I seen a sadder face than that of the late President during the
time his features were familiar to me. It is so easy to be wise after
the event; but it seems to me now that one ought somehow to have
foreseen that the stamp of a sad end was impressed by nature on that
rugged, haggard face. The exceeding sadness of the eyes and their
strange sweetness were the one redeeming feature in a face of unusual
plainness, and there was about them that odd, weird look, which some
eyes possess, of seeming to see more than the outer objects of the world
around."
Lincoln's family and friends strove to beguile him of his melancholy.
They took him to places of amusement; they walked and drove with him in
the pleasantest scenes about the capital; and above all, they talked
with him of times past, seeking to divert his mind from its present
distress by reviving memories of more joyous days. His old friends were,
as Mr. Arnold states, "shocked with the change in his appearance. They
had known him at his home, and at the courts in Illinois, with a frame
of iron and nerves of steel; as a man who hardly knew what illness was,
ever genial and sparkling with frolic and fun, nearly always cheery and
bright. Now they saw the wrinkles on his face and forehead deepen into
furrows; the laugh of old days was less frequent, and it did not seem to
come from the heart. Anxiety, responsibility, care, thought, disasters,
defeats, the injustice of friends, wore upon his giant frame, and his
nerves of steel became at times irritable. He said one day, with a
pathos which language cannot describe, 'I feel as though I shall _never
be glad again_.'"
Hon. Schuyler Colfax repeats a similarly pathetic expression which fell
from the lips of the afflicted President. "One morning," says Mr.
Colfax, "calling upon him on business, I found him looking more than
usually pale and careworn, and inquired the reason. He replied with the
bad news he had received at a late hour the previous night, which had
not yet been communicated to the press, adding that he had not closed
his eyes or breakfasted; and, with an expression I shall never forget,
he exclaimed, 'How willingly would I exchange places today with the
soldier who sleeps on the ground in the Army of the Potomac!'"
A lady who saw Lincoln in the summer of 1864 for the first time, and who
had expected to see "a very homely man," says: "I was totally unprepared
for the impression instantly made upon me. So bowed and sorrow-laden was
his whole person, expressing such weariness of mind and body, as he
dropped himself heavily from step to step down to the ground. But his
face!--oh, the pathos of it!--haggard, drawn into fixed lines of
unutterable sadness, with a look of loneliness, as of a soul whose depth
of sorrow and bitterness no human sympathy could ever reach. I was so
penetrated with the anguish and settled grief in every feature, that I
gazed at him through tears, and felt I had stepped upon the threshold of
a sanctuary too sacred for human feet. The impression I carried away was
that I had seen, not so much the President of the United States, as _the
saddest man in the world_."
The changes in Lincoln's appearance were noted in the subdued, refined,
purified expression of his face, as of one struggling almost against
hope, but still patiently enduring. Mr. Brooks says, "I have known
impressionable women, touched by his sad face and his gentle bearing, to
go away in tears." Another observer, Rev. C.B. Crane, wrote at the time:
"The President looks thin and careworn. His form is bowed as by a
crushing load; his flesh is wasted as by incessant solicitude; and his
face is thin and furrowed and pale, as though it had become
spiritualized by the vicarious pain which he endured in bearing on
himself all the calamities of his country." Truly it might be said of
him, in the words of Matthew Arnold:
With aching hands and bleeding feet
We dig and heap, lay stone on stone;
We bear the burden and the heat
Of the long day, and wish 't were done.
Not till the hours of light return
All we have built do we discern.
In the tragic experiences of Lincoln in these dark days, the outlook was
less gloomy than it had seemed to his tortured soul. He was even then,
as Mr. John Bigelow puts it, "making for himself a larger place in
history than he had any idea of." He "builded better than he knew"; and
the "hours of light" were soon to come when he would know what he had
built and see the signs that promised better things. The Presidential
election of 1864 demonstrated the abiding confidence of the people in
him and his administration. Every loyal State but three--New Jersey,
Delaware, and Kentucky--gave him its electoral vote; and his popular
majority over McClellan, the Democratic candidate, was upwards of
400,000. Lincoln was cheered but not exultant at the news. Late in the
evening of election day (November 8, 1864) he said, in response to
public congratulations: "I am thankful to God for this approval of the
people. But while deeply grateful for this mark of their confidence in
me, if I know my own heart my gratitude is free from any taint of
personal triumph. It is not in my nature to triumph over anyone; but I
give thanks to Almighty God for this evidence of the people's resolution
to stand by free government and the rights of humanity."
While the election returns were coming in, early in the evening, Lincoln
was at the War Department with a little group assembled to hear them
read. How different the scene from that in the quiet country town where
he had waited for the returns on a similar occasion four years before!
Then all was peace--the lull before the storm. Now the storm had broken,
and its greatest fury was raging about that patient and devoted man who
waited to hear the decision of the nation's supreme tribunal--the voice
of the people whose decree would settle the fate of himself and of the
country. Mr. Charles A. Dana, Assistant Secretary of War, who was in the
group, gives this description of the scene: "General Eckert was coming
in continually with telegrams containing election returns. Mr. Stanton
would read them, and the President would look at them and comment upon
them. Presently there came a lull in the returns, and Mr. Lincoln called
me up to a place by his side. 'Dana,' said he, 'have you ever read any
of the writings of Petroleum V. Nasby?' 'No, sir,' I said, 'I have only
looked at some of them, and they seemed to me funny.' 'Well,' said he,
'let me read you a specimen,' and pulling out a thin yellow-covered
pamphlet from his breast pocket he began to read aloud. Mr. Stanton
viewed this proceeding with great impatience, as I could see; but Mr.
Lincoln paid no attention to that. He would read a page or a story,
pause to con a new election telegram, and then open the book again and
go ahead with a new passage. Finally Mr. Chase came in; and presently
Mr. Whitelaw Reid, and then the reading was interrupted. Mr. Stanton
went to the door and beckoned me into the next room. I shall never
forget his indignation at what seemed to him disgusting nonsense."
The morning following the election one of his private secretaries, Mr.
Neill, coming to the Executive office earlier than usual, found Lincoln
at his table engaged in his regular routine of official work. "Entering
the room," says Mr. Neill, "I took a seat by his side, extended my hand,
and congratulated him upon the vote, for the country's sake and for his
own sake. Turning away from the papers which had been occupying his
attention, he spoke kindly of his competitor, the calm, prudent General,
and great organizer."
The importance of Lincoln's re-election, to the country and to himself,
is forcibly stated by General Grant and Secretary Seward. The former
telegraphed from City Point, the day following: "The victory is worth
more to the country than a battle won." And the same evening, at a
public gathering held to celebrate the event, Mr. Seward said: "The
election has placed our President beyond the pale of human envy or human
harm, as he is above the pale of human ambition. Henceforth all men will
come to see him as we have seen him--a true, loyal, patient, patriotic,
and benevolent man. Having no longer any motive to malign or injure him,
detraction will cease, and Abraham Lincoln will take his place with
Washington and Franklin and Jefferson and Adams and Jackson--among the
benefactors of the country and of the human race."
Lincoln evidently felt greatly reassured by the result of what had
seemed to him a very doubtful contest; but with the return of
cheerfulness came also the dread of continuing his official labors. He
began to long and plan for that happy period at the end of the second
term when he should be free from public burdens. "Mrs. Lincoln desired
to go to Europe for a long tour of pleasure," says Mr. Brooks. "The
President was disposed to gratify her wish; but he fixed his eyes on
California as a place of permanent residence. He had heard so much of
the delightful climate and the abundant natural productions of
California that he had become possessed of a strong desire to visit the
State and remain there if he were satisfied with the results of his
observations. 'When we leave this place,' he said, one day, 'we shall
have enough, I think, to take care of us old people. The boys must look
out for themselves. I guess mother will be satisfied with six months or
so in Europe. After that I should really like to go to California and
take a look at the Pacific coast.'"
After the Baltimore Convention, Mr. Chase proposed to resign his
position as Secretary of the Treasury, but he was persuaded by
influential friends of himself and Lincoln to reconsider his
determination. Chief among these friends was Hon. John Brough, the
sturdy "War Governor" of Ohio. Later in the summer of 1864 the relations
between the President and Secretary Chase again became inharmonious; the
latter determined a second time to resign, and communicated that fact
in a confidential letter to Governor Brough. Hon. Wm. Henry Smith, at
that time Ohio's Secretary of State, and intimately acquainted with the
circumstances as they occurred, says: "Mr. Brough went directly to
Washington to bring about another reconciliation. After talking the
matter over with Mr. Chase and Mr. Stanton, he called on the President
and urged a settlement that would retain the services of Mr. Chase in
the Treasury Department. Mr. Lincoln was very kind, and admitted the
force of all that was urged; but finally said, with a quiet but
impressive firmness, 'Brough, I think you had better _give up the job_
this time.' And thereupon he gave reasons why it was unwise for Mr.
Chase to continue longer in the Cabinet."
In the autumn, the Chief-Justiceship became vacant by the death of Judge
R.B. Taney (October 11, 1864), and the friends of Mr. Chase, who was
then in retirement, desired his elevation to that honorable seat.
Congressman Riddle, who was designated to present the matter to the
President, says: "After hearing what I had to say, Mr. Lincoln asked,
'Will this content Mr. Chase?' 'It is said that those bitten of the
Presidency die of it,' I replied. His smile showed he would not take
that answer. I added: 'Mr. Chase is conscious of ability to serve the
country as President. We should expect the greatest from him.' 'He would
not disappoint you, were it in his reach. But I should be sorry to see a
Chief-Justice anxious to _swap_ for it.' I said then what I had already
said to Mr. Chase: that I would rather be the Chief Justice than the
President. I urged that the purity and elevation of Mr. Chase's
character guaranteed the dignity of the station from all compromise;
that momentous questions must arise, involving recent exercises of
power, without precedents to guide the court; that the honor of the
Government would be safe in the hands of Mr. Chase. 'Would you _pack_
the Supreme Court?' he asked, a little sharply. 'Would you have a Judge
with no preconceived notions of law?' was my response. 'True, true,' was
his laughing reply; 'how could I find anyone, fit for the place, who has
not some definite notions on all questions likely to arise?'"
The proposed appointment of Mr. Chase as Chief-Justice was severely
criticized by certain friends of Lincoln, who believed Mr. Chase was
personally hostile to the President, and could not understand the
latter's magnanimity in thus ignoring personal considerations. When told
of these criticisms, Lincoln said: "My friends all over the country are
trying to put up the bars between me and Governor Chase. I have a vast
number of messages and letters from men who think they are my friends,
imploring and warning me not to appoint him. Now I know more about
Governor Chase's hostility to me than any of these men can tell me; but
_I am going to nominate him_." Which he did, and Chase became
Chief-Justice in December, 1864.
The withdrawal of Secretary Chase from the Cabinet was soon followed by
that of Postmaster-General Blair, who was succeeded by ex-Governor
Dennison of Ohio. Blair received, says Mr. Welles in his Diary, a letter
from the President, which, though friendly in tone, informed him that
the time had arrived when it seemed best that he should retire, and
requesting his resignation, which was promptly given. Mr. Welles says
that the President subsequently informed him that "Mr. Chase had many
friends who felt wounded that he should have left the Cabinet, and left
alone. The friends of Blair had been his assailants, and the President
thought that if he also left the Cabinet Chase and his friends would be
satisfied and the administration would be relieved of irritating
bickerings. The relations of Blair with Stanton also were such that it
was difficult for the two to remain." A little later came the
resignation of Attorney-General Bates, which, says Mr. Welles, "has
initiated more intrigues. A host of candidates are thrust
forward--Evarts, Holt, Gushing, Whiting, and the Lord knows who, are all
candidates." This gives but a faint idea of the embarrassments and
dissensions among Lincoln's friends and official advisers, and of the
ceaseless efforts and infinite tact that were needed to maintain a
decent degree of harmony among them.
Early in December the President submitted to Congress his fourth annual
message--a brief and businesslike statement of the prospects and
purposes of the Government. Its first sentence is: "The most remarkable
feature in the military operations of the year is General Sherman's
attempted march of three hundred miles directly through the insurgent
region." Then follows a reference to the important movements that had
occurred during the year, "to the effect of moulding society for
durability in the Union." The document closes with the following
explicit statement: "In presenting the abandonment of armed resistance
to the national authority, on the part of the insurgents, as the only
indispensable condition to ending the war on the part of the Government,
I _retract nothing_ heretofore said as to slavery. If the people should,
by whatever mode or means, make it an executive duty to re-enslave such
persons, _another, and not I_, must be their instrument to perform it.
In stating a single condition of peace, I mean simply to say that the
war will cease on the part of the Government whenever it shall have
ceased on the part of those who began it."
New Year's day, 1865, was marked by a memorable incident. Among the
crowds gathered in the White House grounds stood groups of colored
people, watching with eager eyes the tide of people flowing in at the
open door to exchange salutations with the President. It was a privilege
heretofore reserved for the white race; but now, as the line of visitors
thinned, showing that the reception was nearly over, the boldest of the
colored men drew near the door with faltering step. Some were in
conventional attire, others in fantastic dress, and others again in
laborers' garb. The novel procession moved into the vestibule and on
into the room where the President was holding the republican court.
Timid and doubting, though determined, they ventured where their
oppressed and down-trodden race had never appeared before, and with the
keen, anxious, inquiring look on their dark faces, seemed like a herd of
wild creatures from the woods, in a strange and dangerous place. The
reception had been unusually well attended, and the President was nearly
overcome with weariness; but when he saw the dusky faces of his unwonted
visitors, he rallied from his fatigue and gave them a hearty welcome.
They were wild with joy. Thronging about him, they pressed and kissed
his hand, laughing and weeping at once, and exclaiming, "God bless Massa
Linkum!" It was a scene not easy to forget: the thanks and adoration of
a race paid to their deliverer.
Ever since issuing the Emancipation Proclamation Lincoln had earnestly
desired that that measure should be perfected by a Constitutional
amendment forever prohibiting slavery in the territory of the United
States. He had discussed the matter fully with his friends in Congress,
and repeatedly urged them to press it to an issue. Just before the
Baltimore Convention, he urged Senator Morgan of New York, chairman of
the National Republican Committee, to have the proposed amendment made
the "key-note of the speeches and the key-note of the platform."
Congressman Rollins of Missouri relates that the President said to him,
"The passage of the amendment will _clinch the whole matter_." The
subject was already definitely before Congress. In December, 1863, joint
resolutions for this great end had been introduced in the House by Hon.
James M. Ashley of Ohio, and in the Senate by Hon. Charles Sumner of
Massachusetts and Hon. J.B. Henderson of Missouri. Senator Trumbull of
the Judiciary Committee, to whom the Senate resolutions were referred,
reported a substitute for the amendment, which, in April, 1864, passed
the Senate by a vote of thirty-eight to six; but reaching the House,
June 15, it failed to get the necessary two-thirds vote and was
defeated. At the next session of Congress the resolutions were again
presented to the House, and after a protracted debate were passed
(January 13, 1865) by a vote of one hundred and nineteen to fifty-six.
Illinois was the first State to ratify the amendment; and others
promptly followed. Lincoln was grateful and delighted. He remarked,
"This ends the job"; adding, "I feel proud that Illinois is a little
ahead."
Overtures having been made, through General Grant, for a meeting between
the President and certain "peace commissioners" representing the
belligerents, Lincoln, anxious that nothing should be left undone that
might evidence his desire to bring the war to a close, consented to the
interview. On the morning of February 2, 1865, he left Washington, quite
privately, in order to accomplish his mission without awakening the
gossip and criticism which publicity would excite. At Fortress Monroe he
was joined by Secretary Seward, who seems to have been the only member
of the Cabinet who knew of the President's intention to meet the
Southern Commissioners. Lincoln took the full responsibility, as he
often did when dealing with risky or unpopular measures. "None of the
Cabinet were advised of this move, and without exception I think it
struck them unfavorably that the Chief Magistrate should have gone on
such a mission," is the comment of Secretary Welles,--although he adds,
"The discussion will be likely to tend to peace."
The next morning (February 3) the President and Mr. Seward received the
Southern Commissioners--Stephens, Hunter, and Campbell--on board the U.S.
steam transport "River Queen" in Hampton Roads. The conference, says
Mr. Seward, "was altogether informal. There was no attendance of
secretaries, clerks, or other witnesses. Nothing was written or read.
The conversation, although earnest and free, was calm and courteous and
kind on both sides. The Richmond party approached the subject rather
indirectly, and at no time did they either make categorical demands or
tender formal stipulations or absolute refusals. Nevertheless, during
the conference, which lasted four hours, the several points at issue
between the Government and the insurgents were distinctly raised and
discussed, fully, intelligently, and in an amicable spirit."
The meeting was fruitless. The commissioners asked, as a preliminary
step, the recognition of Jefferson Davis as President of the Southern
Confederacy. Lincoln declined, stating that "the only ground on which he
could rest the justice of the war--either with his own people or with
foreign powers--was that it was not a war of conquest, for the States
had never been separated from the Union. Consequently he could not
recognize another government inside of the one of which he alone was
President, nor admit the separate independence of States that were yet a
part of the Union. 'That,' said he, 'would be doing what you have so
long asked Europe to do in vain, and be resigning the only thing the
armies of the Union have been fighting for.' Mr. Hunter, one of the
commissioners, made a long reply to this, insisting that the recognition
of Davis's power to make a treaty was the first and indispensable step
to peace, and referred to the correspondence between King Charles I. and
his Parliament as a trustworthy precedent of a constitutional ruler
treating with rebels. Lincoln's face then wore that indescribable
expression which generally preceded his hardest hits, as he remarked:
'Upon questions of history I must refer you to Mr. Seward, for he is
posted in such things, and I don't pretend to be. My only distinct
recollection of the matter is that _Charles lost his head_.'"
Alexander H. Stephens, one of the commissioners at the meeting on
board the "River Queen," and the Vice-President of the waning
Confederacy, was a very small man physically, with a complexion so
yellow as to suggest an ear of ripe corn. Lincoln gave the following
humorous account of the meeting with him: "Mr. Stephens had on an
overcoat about three sizes too big for him, with an old-fashioned high
collar. The cabin soon began to get pretty warm, and after a while he
stood up and pulled off his big coat. He slipped it off just about as
you would husk an ear of corn. I couldn't help thinking, as I looked
first at the overcoat and then at the man, 'Well, that's the _biggest
shuck_ and the _smallest nubbin_ I ever laid eyes on.'"
So strongly were Lincoln's hopes fixed on finding some possible basis
for a peaceful restoration of the Union that a few days after his return
from his meeting with the Southern Peace Commissioners he presented to
the Cabinet (February 5, 1865) a scheme for paying to the Southern
States a partial compensation for the loss of their slaves, provided
they would at once discontinue armed resistance to the Federal
Government. It was, says Mr. Welles, who was present at the meeting
referred to, as "a proposition for paying the expenses of the war for
two hundred days, or four hundred millions of dollars, to the rebellious
States, to be for the extinguishment of slavery. The scheme did not meet
with favor, and was dropped." But it showed, adds Mr. Welles, "the
earnest desire of the President to conciliate and effect peace."
The evening of March 3, 1865, the President had remained with his
Cabinet at the Capitol until a late hour, finishing the business
pertaining to the last acts of the old Congress. His face had the
ineffaceable care-worn look, yet his manner was cheerful, and he
appeared to be occupied with the work of the moment, to the exclusion of
all thoughts of the future or of the great event of the morrow.
Rain prevailed during the morning of inauguration day, but before noon
it had ceased falling. The new Senate, convened for a special session,
was organized, and Andrew Johnson was sworn in its presence into the
office of Vice-President. Shortly after twelve o'clock, Lincoln entered
the chamber and joined the august procession, which then moved to the
eastern portico. As Lincoln stepped forward to take the oath of office,
a flood of sunlight suddenly burst from the clouds, illuminating his
face and form as he bowed to the acclamations of the people. Speaking of
this incident next day, he said, "Did you notice that sunburst? It made
my heart jump." Cheers and shouts rent the air as the President prepared
to speak his inaugural. He raised his arm, and the crowd hushed to catch
his opening words. He paused, as though thronging memories impeded
utterance; then, in a voice clear and strong, but touched with pathos,
he read that eloquent and imperishable composition, the Second Inaugural
Address.
_Fellow-Countrymen:_ At this second appearing to take the oath of
the Presidential office, there is less occasion for an extended
address than there was at the first. Then a statement, somewhat in
detail, of a course to be pursued, seemed fitting and proper. Now,
at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations
have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the
great contest which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the
energies of the Nation, little that is new could be presented. The
progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as
well known to the public as to myself; and it is, I trust,
reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. With high hope for
the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured.
On the occasion corresponding to this, four years ago, all thoughts
were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it,
all sought to avoid it. While the inaugural address was being
delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union
without war, insurgent agents were in the city, seeking to destroy
it with war,--seeking to dissolve the Union, and divide the effects
by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war, but one of them would
make war rather than let the Nation survive, and the other would
accept war rather than let it perish; and the war came. One-eighth
of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed
generally over the Union, but localized in the southern part of it.
These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew
that this interest was somehow the cause of the war. To strengthen,
perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the
insurgents would rend the Union by war, while the Government
claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial
enlargement of it.
Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration
which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause
of the conflict might cease when, or even before the conflict
itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a
result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible,
and pray to the same God, and each invokes His aid against the
other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just
God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other
men's faces; but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The
prayer of both could not be answered. That of neither has been
answered fully. The Almighty has his own purposes. "Woe unto the
world because of offenses, for it must needs be that offenses come,
but woe to that man by whom the offense cometh." If we shall
suppose that American slavery is one of those offenses, which, in
the Providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued
through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He
gives to North and South this terrible war, as the woe due to those
by whom the offense came, shall we discern therein any departure
from those Divine attributes which the believers in a living God
always ascribe to Him? Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray,
that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet if God
wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondman's
two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and
until every drop of blood drawn by the lash shall be paid by
another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago,
so still it must be said: "The judgments of the Lord are true and
righteous altogether."
With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the
right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish
the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds; to care for him
who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and for his
orphan; to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting
peace among ourselves and with all nations.
This address was probably, next to the Gettysburg oration, Lincoln's
most eloquent and touching public appeal. Gladstone of England said of
it: "I am taken captive by so striking an utterance as this. I see in
it the effect of sharp trial, when rightly borne, to raise men to a
higher level of thought and action. It is by cruel suffering that
nations are sometimes born to a better life. So it is with individual
men. Lincoln's words show that upon him anxiety and sorrow have wrought
their true effect."
As the procession moved from the Capitol to the White House, at the
close of the inaugural ceremonies, a bright star was visible in the
heavens. The crowds gazing upon the unwonted phenomenon noted it as an
auspicious omen, like the baptism of sunshine which had seemed to
consecrate the President anew to his exalted office.