The Life of Abraham Lincoln

by Henry Ketcham

The democratic convention had, after the bolt of the extreme southerners, adjourned to Baltimore, where they duly nominated Douglas. What any one could have done for the purpose of restoring harmony in the party, he did. But the breach was too wide for even that astute politician to bridge over. Lincoln grasped the situation. It was what he had planned two years before, and he confidently expected just this breach. "Douglas never can be President," he had said. He fully understood the relentless bitterness of the slave power, and he well knew that whatever Douglas might do for the northern democrats, he had lost all influence with the southern branch of that party. So Lincoln told his "little story" and serenely awaited the result.

The second republican national convention met in Chicago, May 16, 1860. A temporary wooden structure, called a wigwam, had been built for the purpose. It was, for those days, a very large building, and would accommodate about ten thousand people.

The man who was, far and away, the most prominent candidate for the nomination, was William H. Seward, of New York. He had the benefit of thirty years of experience in political life. He was a man of wide learning, fine culture, unequaled as a diplomatist; he was a patriot, a statesman, and loyal to the principles of the republican party. He had a plurality of the delegates by a wide margin, though not a majority. It seemed a foregone conclusion that he would be nominated. Horace Greeley, who was determinedly opposed to him, gave up the contest and telegraphed to his paper that Seward would be nominated. The opposition, he said, could not unite on any one man.

The next most prominent name was Lincoln. He had the full delegation of Illinois, who, at Decatur, had been instructed to vote for him as "the first and only choice" of the state. He had many votes, too, from the neighboring states.

In addition to these two candidates before the convention, there were half a dozen others, all "favorite sons" of their own states, but who at no time developed any great strength.

The only point against Seward was his inability to carry certain doubtful states. If the split in the democratic party had not occurred, and if the election were to be carried according to the experience of 1856, it would be necessary for the republicans to carry certain states which they had at that time failed to carry. The most available states were Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Indiana, and Illinois. Under favorable circumstances, these could be carried. Seward's long public career had inevitably caused antagonisms, and these necessary states he could not carry. The question with his opponents then was, Who is most likely to carry these states? Lincoln's popularity in three of the four states named singled him out as the rival of Seward. It then became only a question whether the opposition to Seward could or could not unite in the support of Lincoln.

At this point there came in a political ruse which has been often used in later years. Seward's friends had taken to Chicago a small army of claquers, numbering nearly or quite two thousand. These were distributed through the audience and were apparently under orders to shout whenever Seward's name was mentioned. This gave the appearance of spontaneous applause and seemed to arouse great enthusiasm for the candidate.

Lincoln's friends soon came to understand the situation and planned to beat their rivals at their own game. They sent out into the country and secured two men with phenomenal voices. It was said, with playful exaggeration, that these two men could shout so as to be heard across Lake Michigan. They were made captains of two stentorian bands of followers. These were placed on opposite sides of the auditorium and were instructed to raise the shout at a preconcerted signal and keep it up as long as desired. The plan worked.

Leonard Swett describes the result: "Caleb B. Smith of Indiana then seconded the nomination of Lincoln, and the West came to his rescue. No mortal before ever saw such a scene. The idea of us Hoosiers and Suckers being out-screamed would have been as bad to them as the loss of their man. Five thousand people at once leaped to their seats, women not wanting in the number, and the wild yell made soft vesper breathings of all that had preceded. No language can describe it. A thousand steam-whistles, ten acres of hotel gongs, a tribe of Comanches headed by a choice vanguard from pandemonium, might have mingled in the scene unnoticed."

A dramatic scene had occurred at the adoption of the platform. When the first resolution was read, Joshua E. Giddings, an old-time abolitionist of the extreme type, moved as an amendment to incorporate the words from the Declaration of Independence which announce the right of all men to "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." The hostility to this amendment was not so much owing to an objection to the phrase, as to its being introduced upon the motion of so extreme a partisan as Giddings. The new party was made up of men of various old parties, and it was important that the moderate democrats should not be antagonized by the extreme abolitionists. The motion was lost by a decided vote, and the old man, almost broken-hearted, left the hall amid the protestations of his associates.