“The United States have neither the right nor the disposition to intervene by force on either side in the lamentable war which is going on between France and Mexico. On the contrary, they practise, in regard to Mexico, in every phase of that war, the non-intervention which they require all foreign powers to observe in regard to the United States. But, notwithstanding this self-restraint, this Government knows full well that the inherent normal opinion of Mexico favours a government there, republican in its form and domestic in its organisation, in preference to any monarchical institutions to be imposed from abroad. This Government knows also that this normal opinion of the people of Mexico resulted largely from the influence of popular opinion in this country, and is continually invigorated by it. The President believes, moreover, that this popular opinion of the United States is just in itself, and eminently essential to the progress of civilisation on the American continent, which civilisation, it believes, can and will, if left free from European resistance, work harmoniously together with advancing refinement on the other continents.... Nor is it necessary to practise reserve upon the point that if France should, upon due consideration, determine to adopt a policy in Mexico adverse to the American opinion and sentiments which I have described, that policy would probably scatter seeds which would be fruitful of jealousies which might ultimately ripen into collision between France and the United States and other American republics.”
The French Government was anxious that the United States should recognise the Government of Maximilian, but its unfriendly and unsympathetic disposition towards the Federal Government was perfectly understood, and “the action of the Administration was approved of by the House of Representatives in a resolution of April 4th, 1864.”
Eighteen hundred and sixty-three had, however, much greater political trouble, the burden of which fell almost entirely on President Lincoln. The Emancipation principles were not agreeable to the most ultra Abolitionists, who were willing at one time to let the South secede rather than be linked to slavery, and who at all times, in their impatience of what was undeniably a terrible evil, regarded nothing so much as the welfare of the slaves. Time has since shown that Emancipation, which in its broad views included the interests of both white and black, was by far the wisest for both. In Missouri, these differences of opinion were fomented by certain occurrences into painful discord among the Union-men. In 1861, General Fremont, having military command of the state, proclaimed that he assumed the administrative power, thus entirely superseding the civil rulers. General Fremont, it will be remembered, also endeavoured, by freeing the slaves, to take to himself functions belonging only to the President. He, like General M‘Clellan, affected great state, and before his removal (November 2nd, 1863), was censured by the War Office for lavish and unwarranted expenditures, which was significant indeed in the most extravagantly expensive war of modern times. Fremont’s removal greatly angered his friends, especially the Germans. On the other hand, General Halleck, who succeeded General Hunter—who had been locum tenens for only a few days after Fremont’s removal—made bad worse by excluding fugitive slaves from his lines. All this was followed by dissensions between General Gamble, a gradual Emancipationist, and General Curtis, who had been placed in command (September 19th, 1863) when the states of Missouri, Kansas, and Arkansas were formed into a military district. During the summer, the Union army being withdrawn to Tennessee, Kansas and Missouri were overrun by bands of guerillas, under an infamous desperado named Colonel Quantrill, whose sole aim was robbery, murder, and outrage, and who made a speciality of burning churches. This brigand, acting under Confederate orders, thus destroyed the town of Lawrence, Kansas. For this, Government was blamed, and the dissensions grew worse. Therefore, General Curtis was removed, and General Schofield put in his place, which gave rise to so many protests, that President Lincoln, at length fairly roused, answered one of these remonstrances as follows:—
“It is very painful to me that you in Missouri can not or will not settle your factional quarrel among yourselves. I have been tormented with it beyond endurance, for months, by both sides. Neither side pays the least respect to my appeals to your reason. I am now compelled to take hold of the case.
“A. Lincoln.”
These unreasonable quarrels lasted for a long time, and were finally settled by the appointment of General Rosencranz. No fault was found with General Schofield—in fact, in his first order, General Rosencranz paid a high tribute to his predecessor, for the admirable state in which he found the business of the department. So the difficulties died. In the President’s letter to General Schofield, when appointed, he had said, “If both factions, or neither, abuse you, you will probably be about right. Beware of being assailed by one and praised by the other.” Judged by his own rule in this case, says Holland, the President was as nearly right as he could be, for both sides abused him thoroughly. It may be added that, having scolded him to their hearts’ content, and declared him to be a copy of all the Neros, Domitians, and other monsters of antiquity, the Missouri Unionists all wheeled into line and voted unanimously for him at the next Presidential election, as if nothing had happened.
CHAPTER XI.
Proclamation of Amnesty—Lincoln’s Benevolence—His Self-reliance—Progress of the Campaign—The Summer of 1864—Lincoln’s Speech at Philadelphia—Suffering in the South—Raids—Sherman’s March—Grant’s Position—Battle of the Wilderness—Siege of Petersburg—Chambersburg—Naval Victories—Confederate Intrigues—Presidential Election—Lincoln Re-elected—Atrocious attempts of the Confederates.
The American political year begins with the meeting of Congress, which in 1863 assembled on Monday, December 7th. On the 9th, President Lincoln sent to both Houses a message, in which he set forth the principal events of the year, as regarded the interests of the American people. The previous day he had issued a proclamation of amnesty to all those engaged in the rebellion, who “should take an oath to support, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States and the union of the states under it, with the Acts of Congress passed during the rebellion, and the proclamations of the President concerning slaves.” From this amnesty those were excepted who held high positions in the civil or military service of the rebels, or who had left similar positions in the Union to join the enemy. It also declared that whenever, in any of the rebel states, a number of persons, not less than one-tenth of the qualified voters, should take this oath and establish a state government which should be republican, it should be recognised as the government of the state. On the 24th March, he issued a proclamation following this, in which he defined more closely the cases in which rebels were to be pardoned. He allowed personal application to himself in all cases. Mr. Lincoln was of so gentle a disposition that he seldom refused to sign a pardon, and a weeping widow or orphan could always induce him to pardon even the worst malefactors. The manner in which he would mingle his humorous fancies, not only with serious business, but with almost tragic incidents, was very peculiar. Once a poor old man from Tennessee called to beg for the life of his son, who was under sentence of death for desertion. He showed his papers, and the President, taking them kindly, said he would examine them, and answer the applicant the next day. The old man, in an agony of anxiety, with tears streaming, cried, “To-morrow may be too late! My son is under sentence of death. It must be done now, or not at all.” The President looked sympathetically into the old man’s face, took him by the hands, and pensively said, “That puts me in mind of a little story. Wait a bit—I’ll tell it.”
“Once General Fisk of Missouri was a Colonel, and he despised swearing. When he raised his regiment in Missouri, he proposed to his men that he should do all the profanity in it. They agreed, and for a long time not a solitary swear was heard among them. But there was an old teamster named John Todd, who, one day when driving his mules over a very bad road, and finding them unusually obstinate, could not restrain himself, and burst into a tremendous display of ground and lofty swearing. This was overheard by the Colonel, who at once brought John to book. ‘Didn’t you promise,’ he said, indignantly, ‘that I was to do all the swearing of the regiment?’ ‘Yes, I did, Colonel,’ he replied; ‘but the truth is, the swearing had to be done then, or not at all—and you weren’t there to do it.’ Well,” concluded Mr. Lincoln, as he took up a pen, “it seems that this pardon has to be done now, or not at all, like Todd’s swearing; and, for fear of a mistake,” he added, with a kindly twinkle in his eye, “I guess we’ll do it at once.” Saying this, he wrote a few lines, which caused the old man to shed more tears when he read them, for the paper held the pardon of his son. Once, and once only, was President Lincoln known to sternly and promptly refuse mercy. This was to a man who had been a slave-trader, and who, after his term of imprisonment had expired, was still kept in jail for a fine of 1000 dollars. He fully acknowledged his guilt, and was very touching in his appeal on paper, but Lincoln was unmoved. “I could forgive the foulest murder for such an appeal,” he said, “for it is my weakness to be too easily moved by appeals for mercy; but the man who could go to Africa, and rob her of her children, and sell them into endless bondage, with no other motive than that of getting dollars and cents, is so much worse than the most depraved murderer, that he can never receive pardon at my hands. No; he may rot in jail before he shall have liberty by any act of mine.” On one occasion, when a foolish young fellow was condemned to death for not joining his regiment, his friends went with a pardon, which they begged the President to sign. They found him before a table, of which every inch was deeply covered with papers. Mr. Lincoln listened to their request, and proceeded to another table, where there was room to write. “Do you know,” he said, as he held the document of life or death in his hand, “that table puts me in mind of a little story of the Patagonians. They open oysters and eat them, and throw the shells out of the window till the pile gets higher than the house, and then”—he said this, writing his signature, and handing them the paper—“they move.”
Holland tells us that, in a letter to him, a personal friend of the President said, “I called on him one day in the earlier part of the war. He had just written a pardon for a young man who had been sentenced to be shot for sleeping at his post as sentinel. He remarked, as he read it to me, “I could not think of going into eternity with the blood of that poor young man on my skirts.” Then he added, “It is not to be wondered at that a boy raised on a farm, probably in the habit of going to bed at dark, should, when required to watch, fall asleep; and I cannot consent to shoot him for such an act.” This story has a touching continuation in the fact that the dead body of this youth was found among the slain on the field of Fredericksburg, wearing next his heart a photograph of the great President, beneath which was written, God bless President Lincoln. Once, when a General went to Washington to urge the execution of twenty-four deserters, believing that the army was in danger from the frequency of desertion, President Lincoln replied, “General, there are already too many weeping widows in the United States. For God’s sake, don’t ask me to add to the number, for I won’t do it.”