The Kennebec Journal had not yet risen to that standard of circulation and of excellence, its position warranted and required. In the words of one thoroughly conversant with its affairs, “The paper was badly run down.” It was the opposition paper, and had long been what, in common parlance is known as “the under dog in the fight.” There was the largest opportunity for the display of the new editor’s push and tact in business matters. To these two things, therefore,—public acquaintance and business affairs,—he gave himself until November, 1854.
About this time a turn came in the political tide, and William Pitt Fessenden, “that good Whig,” was elected to the United States senate, routing the Pillsbury Democracy. Governor Crosby and his council were also Whigs.
Everything of a political character seemed highly favorable for the best editorial work, just as after the war the highest statesmanship was requisite to garner and perpetuate its results, crystalize its victories, and thus secure their glory untarnished.
So now conservatism, power, and radical might,—the one to hold, and the other to defend what had been gained,—were needful. It did not take long to catch the spirit of the hour. Mr. Blaine had been familiar with the fight from boyhood, and in the great campaign of General Harrison had seen, upon a grander scale, a similar victory. Now he was on the stage of action, in the responsibilities of life.
He had really entered the state in one of the happiest years, politically, of her history. It was not until several years later that the legislature of his old state of Pennsylvania defeated the express wish of President Buchanan upon this same issue, and sent Gen. Simon Cameron to the senate in place of Mr. Buchanan’s selected candidate, John W. Forney. This, at the time, was said to be one of the most severe blows his administration could receive.
In Maine it was the voice of the people against the nefarious attempt to fasten slavery upon the territories, and against the repeal of the Missouri Compromise. Then the opponents of slavery were not all abolitionists. They were rather restrictionists. In an address delivered by Henry Ward Beecher about this time, he makes these two points,—
First.—“We must hedge in slavery as far as possible.”
Second.—“Ameliorate the condition of the blacks to the extent of our ability.”
There were, indeed, abolitionists then, red hot, just as there are prohibitionists now, and as events have proved, they were the vanguard of Vicksburg and Gettysburgh, where there were no compromises of the Missouri, or any other kind, and no Mason and Dixon’s line, but lines of battle. And in the one case the words “surrender of slaves,” written with bayonets dipped in blood, and in the other, resounding from cannon and battle charge, the only alternative, “give in or go under.”
But the great political battles were being fought now, not to kill men, but to save them, and to avert, if possible, the dread arbitrament of civil war with its consequences, more dire than pen could write or tongue could tell. It was a time for greatest wisdom and loftiest courage.