Abraham Lincoln

by William Eleroy Curtis

Such incidents occurred nearly every day and were a source of great pleasure to the President, who was never happier than when in the company of "the plain people," as he called them.

No one man of honest intentions visited him without feeling the better for it and being impressed with his ability, his courage, and his confidence. From the beginning he never doubted his own success. He realized that the Democratic party was hopelessly split and that, while the factions, if combined, might embrace a majority of the voters of the country, the Republicans would have a plurality, and his reasoning was so plausible that he convinced his visitors of the truth of his convictions. He never showed the slightest annoyance at the attacks that were continually made upon his reputation and record, and demonstrated his coolness, self-poise, and wisdom by declining to defend himself or offer explanations. His theory was expressed to a friend who wrote him with great concern about a charge that had been made against his integrity.

"I have made this explanation to you as a friend," he wrote, "but I wish no explanation made to our enemies. What they want is a squabble and a fuss, and that they can have if we explain, and they cannot have it if we don't."

The greater number of inquiries related to his position and intentions towards slavery, and to every one he gave a similar answer, that he had defined his position again and again in his speeches before his nomination, and "Those who will not read or heed what I have already publicly said would not read or heed a repetition of it. 'If they hear not Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded, though one rose from the dead.'"

He kept his finger upon the pulse of the country, and none of the managers of either party was so well informed as to the situation and sentiment in different sections as he. The Republican politicians soon discovered this fact and came to him more and more for advice and instruction. Even Thurlow Weed, who was supposed to be the shrewdest politician in the country, recognized a master and sought counsel from him regarding the management of the campaign in New York. Wherever he detected a weak spot, he sent a word of warning and advice: wherever there were local dissensions, he restored harmony with his tact and good-nature. Thus was Lincoln the manager of his own campaign; more so, perhaps, than any man who was ever elected President. But at the same time he made one great mistake. He had heard the threat of secession so long that he had grown indifferent to it, and he told everybody that "The people of the South have too much sense to attempt the ruin of the government."

The election occurred on November 6, 1860, and the result was what he had expected since his nomination. The Republican electors did not receive a majority by nearly a million votes, but the division of the Democrats left them a plurality.

The city of Springfield had never cast so large a vote for any candidate for office up to that time, and it celebrated its triumph with a jubilee of rejoicing. The people called Lincoln from his house and demanded a speech, but he asked to be excused. He thanked them for their support and congratulations, and remarked, "In all our rejoicing let us neither express nor cherish any hard feeling towards any citizen who has differed from us. Let us at all times remember that all American citizens are brothers of a common country and should dwell together in the bonds of fraternal feeling."

After the excitement had quieted down, Lincoln resumed his former habits and daily routine. Springfield was crowded with politicians those days,—office-seekers and advisers, men who came to ask favors and to offer them. The announcement of his election had been the signal for the conspirators in the South to throw off their masks. During long years of controversy, the pro-slavery party had a hope of ultimate triumph, but until the actual election of Lincoln there was no actual treason or revolutionary act. Four days after the Senators from South Carolina resigned, six weeks later that State declared its separation from the Union and organized an independent government, and, while he was still waiting at Springfield, Lincoln read the newspaper reports of conventions in all the Gulf States, at which they also declared their independence. But he was obliged to sit inactive and helpless; unable to do anything to check the dissolution of the Union, although appeals came from every quarter. He described his situation to an old friend who came to see him at Springfield.

"Joe," he said, sadly, "I suppose you have forgotten the trial down in Montgomery County where your partner gave away your case in his opening speech. I saw you motioning to him and how uneasy you were, but you couldn't stop him, and that's just the way with Buchanan and me. He is giving away the case and I can't stop him."

It was not the Republicans of the North alone that appealed to Lincoln. Unionists of the South came to him for pledges that he would do nothing, for assurances that there was nothing to fear from his election, and he went so far as to make an exception in their case to gratify them. In December he wrote a letter to Alexander H. Stephens, whom he had known and admired in Congress, marked "For your eye only," in which he stated his position in the most positive and unmistakable language, and asked, "Do the people of the South really entertain fears that a Republican administration would directly or indirectly interfere with the slaves? If they do, I wish to assure you as once a friend, and still, I hope, not an enemy, that there is no cause for such fears. The South would be in no more danger in this respect than it was in the days of Washington. I suppose, however, that this does not meet the case. You think slavery is right and ought to be extended, while we think it is wrong and ought to be restricted. That, I suppose, is the rub. It is certainly the only substantial difference between us."