Every day brought tidings that the Rebellion was reappearing in its essential essence. Amidst all professions of submission, there was immitigable hate to the National Government, and prevailing injustice to the freedman. This was last autumn. I was then in Boston. Moved by desire to arrest this fatal tendency, I appealed by letter to members of the Cabinet, entreating them to stand firm against a “policy” which promised nothing but disaster. As soon as the elections were over, I appealed directly to the President himself, by a telegraphic despatch, as follows:—
“Boston, November 12, 1865.
“To the President of the United States, Washington.
“As a faithful friend and supporter of your administration, I most respectfully petition you to suspend for the present your policy towards the Rebel States. I should not present this prayer, if I were not painfully convinced that thus far it has failed to obtain any reasonable guaranties for that security in the future which is essential to peace and reconciliation. To my mind, it abandons the freedmen to the control of their ancient masters, and leaves the national debt exposed to repudiation by returning Rebels. The Declaration of Independence asserts the equality of all men, and that rightful government can be founded only on the consent of the governed. I see small chance of peace, unless these great principles are practically established. Without this, the house will continue divided against itself.
“Charles Sumner,
“Senator of the United States.”
Reaching Washington Saturday evening, immediately before the opening of the last session of Congress, I lost no time in seeing the President. I was with him that evening three hours. I found him changed in temper and purpose. How unlike that President who, only a few days after arrival at power, made me feel so happy in the assurance of agreement on the great question! No longer sympathetic, or even kindly, he was harsh, petulant, and unreasonable. Plainly, his heart was with ex-Rebels. For the Unionist, white or black, who had borne the burden of the day, he had little feeling. He would not see the bad spirit of the Rebel States, and insisted that the outrages there were insufficient to justify exclusion from Congress. The following dialogue ensued.
The President. Are there no murders in Massachusetts?
Mr. Sumner. Unhappily, yes,—sometimes.
The President. Are there no assaults in Boston? Do not men there sometimes knock each other down, so that the police is obliged to interfere?
Mr. Sumner. Unhappily, yes.