Biographies & Memoirs

CHAPTER 14

The Taste Is in My Mouth, a Little 1858–60

LET US HAVE FAITH THAT RIGHT MAKES MIGHT, AND IN THAT FAITH, LET US, TO THE END, DARE TO DO OUR DUTY AS WE UNDERSTAND IT

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Cooper Union address, February 27, 1860

N NOVEMBER 3, 1858, THE DAY AFTER LINCOLN’ S DEFEAT IN THE SENATE election, Jeriah Bonham, editor of the Illinois Gazette in Lacon, asked, “What man now fills the full measure of public expectation as the statesman of to-day and of the near future, as does Abraham Lincoln? … We believe we but express the wish of a large majority of the people that he should be the standard-bearer of the Republican Party for the presidency in 1860.”

Three days later, the Commercial Register of Sandusky, Ohio, carried a brief notice: “An enthusiastic meeting is in progress here to-night in favor of Lincoln for the next Republican candidate for President.”

These first calls for Lincoln to run for president came from smalltown, little-known newspapers. But on November 10, 1858, only a week after Lincoln’s defeat, the Chicago Tribune printed the Commercial Register’s announcement without comment in the “Personal and Political” column of its popular weekly edition. The following day, the Chicago Democrat stated that Illinois should “present his [Lincoln’s] name to the National Republican Convention, first for President, and next for Vice President.” The Illinois State Journal of Springfield printed the “Lincoln for President” story from Sandusky on November 13, 1858, but it was buried in the “City Items and Other Matters” column without editorial comment.

Other newspapers would add their approbation at the end of 1858, but the speculation about Lincoln’s future in higher office often was as much about praising him for what he had accomplished in the debates in 1858 as about what he might achieve in 1860. Some of this commendation mentioned Lincoln at the end of a list of potential candidates, which usually started with Senator William H. Seward of New York and Senator Salmon P. Chase of Ohio, and often included Edward G. Bates of Missouri and Senator Simon Cameron of Pennsylvania.

AT DUSK ON A COLD DECEMBER DAY, as Lincoln was leaving the McLean County courthouse in Bloomington, Jesse Fell, lawyer, land speculator, and the founder of the Bloomington Pantagraph, met him on the south side of the public square. Fell asked whether he could have a word in his brother Kersey’s law office. Fell and Lincoln had roomed together as members of the state legislature at Vandalia in the early 1830s. He had been one of the organizers of the Republican convention in Bloomington in 1856. He nominated Lincoln for the Senate in June 1858, and was secretary of the Republican State Committee. As the two sat amid calf-bound legal books, Fell told Lincoln he had recently returned from an extensive trip to Pennsylvania, New York, and New England. Everywhere he traveled he found people asking the question: “Who is this man Lincoln?” Fell responded that there were two giants in Illinois, a little one they knew, “but that you were the big one they didn’t all know.”

Fell told Lincoln he could become a viable candidate for president in 1860, but it was critical that his name become better known in the East, especially in Pennsylvania. He knew from his wide-ranging contacts that Seward, thought by many to be the leading candidate for the Republican nomination for president, was not popular in Pennsylvania. If Pennsylvania, and several other states in the East, were to rally behind Lincoln, they would first need to know more about him. Fell proposed that Lincoln write an autobiographical statement to be published in several Eastern newspapers.

“Oh, Fell, what’s the use talking of me for the Presidency,” Lincoln replied, “whilst we have such men as Seward, Chase, and others, who are so much better known to the people?” Lincoln told Fell, “Everybody knows them. Nobody, scarcely, outside of Illinois, knows me.” Fell was particularly struck by what Lincoln said next. “Beside, is it not, as a matter of justice, due to such men, who have carried this movement forward to its present status, in spite of fearful opposition, personal abuse, and hard names?”

Lincoln concluded, “I admit the force of much that you say, and admit that I am ambitious, and would like to be President; I am not insensible to the compliment you pay me, and the interest you manifest in the matter, but there is no such good luck in store for me, as the Presidency of these United States.” Besides, “there is nothing in my early history that would interest you or anybody else.” With these words, Lincoln put on his “dilapidated” shawl and walked out into the darkness.

At the very moment that Lincoln was saying no to Fell’s initiative, he was taking his own initiative to publish his personal scrapbook of the debates. Throughout the summer and fall of 1858, Lincoln, by scissors and paste, had placed in a two-hundred-page scrapbook the texts of speeches and debates, primarily from the Chicago Press and Tribune and the Chicago Times. On virtually every page, he wrote in his distinctive handwriting titles, captions, a variety of notes, and corrections to the texts. Four days after he met with Fell, he told Henry C. Whitney, “There is some probability that my Scrap-book will be reprinted.”

Lincoln was actually ambivalent about the presidency in December 1858. Fell’s request may have collided with Lincoln’s innate caution or with his Victorian sense of modesty in speaking about oneself, whereas the texts of the debates were a public record. Lincoln’s ambition was not simply to preserve the historical record of the debates, but to advance his reputation. In the winter of 1858–59, consumed by his law practice and averse to letting the scrapbook out of his hands, Lincoln made no headway in securing a publisher.

FOUR DAYS AFTER the November election, Lincoln and Herndon were back in court in Springfield. For nearly six months, Lincoln had neglected his law practice. He went without income and paid nearly all of his own expenses during the Senate campaign. When state Republican chairman Norman Judd wrote after the election requesting his help in paying off Republican campaign debts, Lincoln replied, “I have been on expenses so long without earning any thing that I am absolutely without money now for even household purposes.”

Lincoln returned to his law office to answer clients complaining of lack of action on their lawsuits. Samuel C. Davis and Company, wholesale merchants in St. Louis, had written Lincoln on October 1, 1858, annoyed that their “interests have been so long neglected.” Lincoln replied on November 17, explaining that he had just seen their letter because he had been “personally engaged the last three or four months.” Usually even tempered, Lincoln betrayed his annoyance. “I will have no more to do with this class of business. I can do business in Court, but I can not, and will not follow executions all over the world.” Lincoln concluded by offering to “surrender” these matters to other lawyers.

Lincoln’s attempt to balance law and politics had become more difficult than ever before. His impatience came through in a number of letters to clients. In November, he wrote former governor Joel Matteson that “we have performed no service” in a case for the Chicago and Alton Railroad, “but we lost a cash fee offered us on the other side.” In December, he told lawyer William M. Fishback, “I wish you would return and take charge of this business” with Samuel C. Davis and Company. After receiving two letters from a cousin in Lexington, Kentucky, Lincoln replied, “It annoys me to say that I can not collect money now.”

Lincoln’s only speeches during the four months after the election took place in courtrooms. In the early spring of 1859, he resumed traveling the Eighth Judicial Circuit, which had been reduced from fourteen to five counties in 1857. Completing the circuit in Danville in early May, he returned to Springfield, where he handled a heavy caseload before the U.S. Circuit Court until the end of June.

THE YEAR 1859 would be full of political surprises for Lincoln, but it did not start out that way. On January 5, the Illinois legislature gathered in Springfield to cast their votes for the U.S. Senate. Rumors persisted that there would be some defections from the Democratic ranks, with some pro-Buchanan legislators expressing their anger at Douglas by voting for Lincoln. In the end, however, all fifty-four Democrats voted for Stephen Douglas and all forty-six Republicans voted for Lincoln.

Bitterly disappointed, Lincoln pondered his options for 1860. He wrote to Judd, “In that day I shall fight in the ranks, but I shall be in no ones way for any of the places.” Lincoln’s comment meant that he had decided not to seek the other U.S. Senate seat from Illinois in 1860 because Lyman Trumbull would surely run for a second term. Lincoln was sounded out by friends to run for governor, but he was not interested in a state office, even the highest one. Now beaten twice for the Senate, this meant Lincoln’s only course seemed to be to wait six more years until 1864 to challenge Douglas—again.

His main political task at the beginning of 1859, now that he had become the recognized leader of the Republicans in Illinois, was marshaling a party many predicted would soon splinter and divide. Lincoln’s leadership was based on loyalty forged through lengthy years in Illinois politics and in the camaraderie of the Eighth Judicial Circuit. These Lincoln men were joined by a few former Democrats, whom Lincoln had known for much less time, but who had come to appreciate both his integrity and political abilities.

Lincoln would demonstrate his political wisdom not only in bringing these men together, but in occasionally keeping them apart. They trusted Lincoln, but many distrusted one another. The advisers were rivals both for Lincoln’s attention and for Illinois political offices. Norman Judd, a former Democrat, was resented by former Whigs for the power he wielded as chairman of the Illinois Republican State Central Committee. He was a resident of northern Illinois, and many believed he slighted the crucial counties in central Illinois in the 1858 Senate campaign. Richard Yates and Leonard Swett, who both disliked Judd, became his rivals for the Republican nomination for governor in 1860. “Long John” Wentworth and Judd carried on a feud through the pages of two Republican papers vying for dominance, Wentworth’s Chicago Democrat, and the Chicago Tribune, which took Judd’s side. Wentworth, in commenting on the Republican organization in the state, summed up the problem in a letter to Judge David Davis. “I look upon the whole management as making Lincoln incidental to the project of certain men for the future.”

ON APRIL 13, 1859, Thomas J. Pickett, editor of the Rock Island Register, wrote Lincoln that he was eager to write to “the Republican editors of the State on the subject of a simultaneous announcement of your name for the Presidency.” Lincoln replied immediately, “I must in candor say I do not think myself fit for the Presidency,” adding, “I certainly am flattered, and gratified, that some partial friends think of me in that connection; but I really think it best for our cause that no concerted effort, such as you suggest, should be made.” Lincoln was not being unduly modest. He was fully aware of the shortcomings of his candidacy, which he believed would be brought into the open if he decided to throw his hat in the ring. He was painfully aware of his lack of education. He had served only a single term in Congress, and was certain that “spotty” Lincoln, the congressman who critics said had failed to support the troops, would be dredged up from his past. He had never held an executive post as had the two front-runners, Seward and Chase, each having served as governor of their states.

Though he refused Pickett’s offer, Lincoln was aware that his influence was expanding beyond Illinois in the spring of 1859, when political leaders in other states began to ask for his help.

Lincoln received an invitation to attend a festival in Boston in April 1859, in honor of the birthday of Thomas Jefferson. He could not attend but sent a letter. “All honor to Jefferson,” Lincoln declared across the miles and years. Alert to the ironies in American history, Lincoln recalled that two great parties had been formed at the birth of the Republic, but seventy years later they had completely changed places. Modern Republicans, descendants of the old New England Federalists, paradoxically, had ended up preserving the principles of Jefferson. Lincoln illustrated his point by the story of two drunken men who engaged in a fight with the result that “each having fought himself out of his own coat, and into the other.” The contemporary application: “The democracy [Democrats] of to-day hold the liberty of one man to be absolutely nothing, when in conflict with another man’s right of property. Republicans, on the contrary, are for both the man and dollar; but in cases of conflict, the man before the dollar.” Lincoln’s compelling words would receive wide circulation in the Republican press.

In May, Lincoln turned down an invitation to speak at the founding convention of the Republican Party in Kansas but presented his counsel about identity and membership: “The only danger will be the temptation to lower the Republican Standard in order to gather recruits. … In my judgment such a step would be a serious mistake—would open a gap through which more would pass out than pass in.” To Kansas Republicans, Lincoln offered his definition of “the o[b]ject of the Republican organization—the preventing the spread and nationalization of Slavery.”

He began to offer his advice on passionately debated issues in other states he believed would impact the prospects for Republican victories in 1859 and 1860. In Ohio, a contentious issue was the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850. The controversy was raised to a fever pitch in the fall of 1858 when a federal marshal arrested John Price, a slave who had lived in Oberlin for some time. Residents of Oberlin stormed the hotel in nearby Wellington where Price was being held, freed him, and took him back to Oberlin, where the president of Oberlin College hid him in his home before friends spirited him away to Canada.

Lincoln was paying attention when Ohio Republicans, with emotions running high, met in a convention in Columbus on June 2, 1859. The convention enacted a plank in their party platform calling for “a repeal of the atrocious Fugitive Slave Law.” Lincoln, in response to these actions, wrote Ohio governor Salmon P. Chase. In an earlier letter Lincoln had expressed his gratitude to Chase for traveling to Illinois to campaign for him the previous summer. He called Chase “one of the very few distinguished men, whose sympathy we in Illinois did receive last year.” But they had never met. Lincoln now told Chase that the action of the convention “is already damaging us here.” He concluded by imploring, “I hope you can, and will, contribute something to relieve us from it.”

Chase replied by declaring that this advice was inconsistent with the “avowal of our great principles” so evident in “your own example in that noble speech of yours at Springfield which opened the campaign last year.” Chase did not give an inch, replying that he believed the fugitive slave law to be unconstitutional, unduly harsh, and not possible to be carried out.

Lincoln responded a week later by stating that, in theory, he believed Congress did have the authority “to enact a Fugitive Slave Law.” In practice, Lincoln was not so interested in discussing “constitutional questions” as he was concerned that “the introduction of a proposition for repeal of the Fugitive Slave Law, into the next Republican National Convention, will explode the convention and the party.”

In May, Lincoln received a letter from Dr. Theodore Canisius, publisher of the Illinois Staats-Anzeiger, who was concerned about Republican involvement in a recent law passed in Massachusetts that obliged two years’ residence by immigrants after naturalization before they would be allowed to vote. Germans, the largest immigrant group in Illinois, worried that the Massachusetts law could spread to Illinois. Lincoln, who had worked hard to reach out to the German population, replied, “As I understand the Massachusetts provision, I am against its adoption in Illinois, or in any other place where I have a right to oppose it.”

Lincoln’s priorities were voiced in a letter to Schuyler Colfax, a young Indiana congressman. Lincoln told Colfax his concern was to “hedge against divisions in the Republican ranks generally, and particularly for the contest of 1860.” Lincoln believed, “The point of danger is the temptation in different localities to ‘platform’ for something which will be popular just there, but which, nevertheless, will be a firebrand elsewhere.” He then named these “platform” issues: agitation against foreigners in Massachusetts; resistance to the fugitive slave law in New Hampshire; the repeal of the fugitive slave law in Ohio; and “squatter sovereignty” in Kansas. Lincoln told Colfax, “In these things there is explosive matter enough to blow up half a dozen national conventions.” Thinking ahead to 1860, he concluded, “In a word, in every locality we should look beyond our noses; and at least say nothing on points where it is probable we should disagree.” Lincoln wrote to Chase, Canisius, and Colfax on individual matters, but the letters demonstrate the beginnings of his national party leadership.

Salmon P. Chase, antislavery governor and senator from Ohio, would begin to cross paths with Lincoln often, starting in 1858, before becoming a rival for the Republican nomination for president in 1860.

LINCOLN EXPANDED HIS NATIONAL influence by wielding his most developed political weapon: public speaking. Since 1854, Lincoln had spoken outside his home state only one time, in Michigan, but in 1859 he would speak in five states—Ohio, Indiana, Wisconsin, Iowa, and Kansas—and turn down invitations to speak in five more.

The initial spark for his expanded speaking engagements was fanned by Lincoln’s old rival, Stephen Douglas. When the Ohio Statesman in Columbus announced on September 1, 1859, that Douglas would campaign in Ohio to support Democratic candidates in the upcoming state elections, the Republican leadership was startled. On the same day, William T. Bascom, secretary of the Ohio Republican State Central Committee, wrote Lincoln inviting him to speak in several cities in Ohio because “We desire to head off the little gentleman.”

Lincoln was ever alert to the staying power of what he called “Douglasism.” He discerned that Douglas, blamed by Buchanan supporters for defeats in the recent elections for Congress and stripped of his chairmanship of the powerful Committee on Territories in an effort led by senators Jefferson Davis, John Slidell, and Jesse Bright, remained a resilient politician.

Despite his setback, Douglas did not retreat from popular sovereignty. Instead, he decided to write a “manifesto” to promote his views. He had promoted popular sovereignty as a self-evident practical remedy for the imploding sectionalism of the day, but now he decided to explain the doctrine in broader theoretical and historical terms. In April 1859, Douglas contacted historian George Bancroft for assistance in understanding the principles involved in the conflict between the colonies and Great Britain. Douglas believed his essay was an opportunity both to give him the last word in the debates with Lincoln and also to answer Senator Albert G. Brown of Mississippi, who had attacked his ideas in the Senate in the winter of 1859. He published his long essay in September in Fletcher Harper’s Harper’s Magazine, the foremost literary periodical in the nation.

Douglas’s manifesto, “The Dividing Line Between Federal and Local Authority: Popular Sovereignty in the Territories,” produced an instant impact. At the outset, Douglas took as one of his foils Lincoln’s “House Divided” speech to argue that for these Republican leaders, “there can be no peace on the slavery question—no truce in the sectional strife—no fraternity between the North and South, so long as this Union remains as our fathers made it—divided into free and slave states, with the right on the part of each to retain slavery so long as it chooses, and to abolish it whenever it pleases.” Douglas argued that popular sovereignty was the “great principle” of American history. The image of a dividing line was taken from the “immortal struggle between the American Colonies and the British Government.” He appealed to the “fathers of the Revolution” to anchor his ideas on self-government. He argued that for the revolutionary generation, slavery was always regarded as a domestic question to be decided locally. Lincoln read Douglas’s essay carefully, biding his time to the day when he would have the opportunity to respond.

The opportunity came in Ohio. On September 15, 1859, Abraham and Mary boarded a train for Columbus. Mary, increasingly ambitious for her husband’s political future, relished this political trip. On the long train ride, she talked about their son Robert, whom they had recently sent off for Phillips Exeter Academy in New Hampshire. Earlier in the year, Robert had failed fifteen of his sixteen entrance exams for Harvard, and thus the decision by his parents to enroll him for one more year of preparation in one of the nation’s leading preparatory schools. Whereas Douglas had been met at the train station in Columbus by a large crowd and a thirteen-gun salute, the Lincolns were not even greeted by a welcoming committee, and they walked alone to the Neil House.

Lincoln spoke twice in Columbus, including on the east terrace of the state capitol where Douglas had spoken six days earlier, but neither speech was well attended. Lincoln asked, “Now, what is Judge Douglas’ Popular Sovereignty?” Lincoln answered, “It is, as a principle, no other than that, if one man chooses to make a slave of another man, neither that other man nor anybody else has a right to object.” Making sport of the recent Harper’s essay, Lincoln stirred the crowd to laughter when he declared, “His explanations explanatory of explanations explained are interminable.”

A larger crowd greeted Lincoln in Cincinnati. In the audience he recognized people from Kentucky who had crossed the Ohio River to hear him. He aimed many of his forceful remarks at them. “I am what they call, as I understand it, a ‘Black Republican.’ I think Slavery is wrong, morally, and politically. I desire that it should be no further spread in these United States, and I should not object if it should gradually terminate in the whole Union.” He told these people from his native state, “I say to you, Kentuckians, that I understand you differ radically with me upon this proposition, that you believe Slavery is a good thing; that Slavery is right; that it ought to be extended and perpetuated in this Union.” Lincoln surely surprised his audience when he said, if you feel this way, “I only propose to try to show you that you ought to nominate for the next Presidency, at Charleston, my distinguished friend Judge Douglas.”

In Ohio, Lincoln offered speeches that challenged Douglas’s assumption that the founding fathers, because some were slave owners, could not possibly have contemplated outlawing slavery in the future. Lincoln wanted to test this assumption by following the actions of these early leaders in subsequent votes, for example, the vote on the Northwest Ordinance of 1787. Lincoln declared it was the Northwest Ordinance that forbade slavery, not the exercise of popular sovereignty by states of the old Northwest.

On his way home, Lincoln stopped in Indianapolis, where he spoke for two hours at the Masonic Hall. With Douglas still on his mind, Lincoln quoted the leitmotif of Douglas’s essay: “Our fathers, when they framed the Government under which we lived, understood this question just as well, and even better, than we do now.” Lincoln responded, “Our fathers who made the government, made the Ordinance of 1787.” He reminded his audience that Indiana “more than once petitioned Congress to abrogate the ordinance entirely” so they could “exercise the ‘popular sovereignty’ of having slaves if they wanted them.” Congress refused. If it were not for Congress, Lincoln declared, “Indiana would have been a slave state.”

Lincoln’s political tour in Ohio bore fruit in a surprising turn of events. At some moment during the train trip from Columbus to Cincinnati, Lincoln remembered that he had left his debates scrapbook behind in his room at the Neil House. Frantic, he requested the assistance of Republican leaders in procuring its safe return, his plea bringing its existence to light. Before long, the Republican State Central Committee, working with Columbus publisher Follett, Foster and Company, contacted Lincoln about publishing an edition of the scrap-book that would include Lincoln’s Ohio speeches. Lincoln was delighted, since conversations in the spring with Illinois publishers had resulted in no offers.

When Lincoln returned home from his Ohio speaking tour, he renewed his correspondence with Ohio politician Thomas Corwin. A former governor of Ohio who had recently been elected to the House of Representatives, Corwin wrote to Lincoln on September 25, 1859, expressing concern that the Republican party’s unremitting talk about slavery “will make the contest in 1860 a hopeless one for us.”

Lincoln replied in a remarkable letter, long lost but recently found, expressing his belief about the role slavery should play in the presidential election of 1860. “What brought these Democrats with us! The Slavery issue. Drop that issue, and they have no motive to remain, and will not remain, with us. It is idiotic to think otherwise.” Lincoln clarified exactly what kind of candidate the Republicans should nominate.

Do not misunderstand me as saying Illinois must have an extreme antislavery candidate! I do not so mean. We must have, though, a man who recognizes that Slavery issue as being the living issue of the day; who does not hesitate to declare slavery a wrong, nor to deal with it as such; who believes in the power, and duty of Congress to prevent the spread of it.

“Idiotic.” Lincoln had never used that word before. In this letter, Lincoln, without betraying any sense that he might be that candidate in 1860, speaks in 1859 about his strong conviction that the Republican nominee ought to be someone who has demonstrated his opposition to the extension of slavery.

Corwin replied to Lincoln’s letter on October 17. “Six months hence we shall see more clearly what at this time must remain only in conjecture.” The Ohio Congressman, who would become a strong supporter of Abraham Lincoln, proved to be prophetic.

WHILE BUSY IN COURT EACH DAY, Lincoln closely followed the 1859 elections held in a number of states. On October 14, the long-awaited results revealed that Republicans had triumphed in Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Minnesota, and Iowa. Returning on Saturday evening to Springfield, he had scarcely arrived at his residence when several hundred townspeople marched to Eighth and Jackson to persuade “Mr. Lincoln, the ‘giant killer,’ ” to speak at the capitol.

Sometime that Saturday evening, or perhaps the next day, Lincoln opened the mail that lay waiting for him. In the stack was a telegram that read,

Hon. A. Lincoln.

Will you speak in Mr. Beechers church Broolyn on or about the twenty ninth (29) november on any subject you please pay two hundred (200) dollars.

James A. Briggs

Lincoln had long admired the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher, one of America’s most prominent ministers. But who would the audience be? What would he say in this prominent setting? Lincoln had never been offered so large a fee to speak.

On Monday morning, Lincoln bounced into his office eager to share his telegram with Herndon. His younger partner remembered how Lincoln “looked much pleased” at the invitation. Lincoln, eager to accept but knowing the demands of his law practice and his own need to prepare thoroughly, wrote requesting a date three months later, toward the end of February 1860. Lincoln’s “compromise” was accepted.

Lincoln understood that he had been invited to deliver a lecture, not a campaign speech. Herndon pointed out that the invitation might be part of an effort by the New York committee to chip away at the candidacy of Seward, whose outspoken criticism of nativism and “Irrepressible Conflict” speech of 1858, in which he spoke of the inevitable collision of the North and South’s two social systems, made some leading Republicans nervous about his prospects in a presidential election. Further sleuthing revealed that Briggs, who tendered the invitation, was a Salmon Chase supporter. Lincoln’s excitement was tempered by awareness that the response to his recent lectures on “Discoveries and Inventions” had been underwhelming. Despite his confidence in his political stump speaking, he understood the address to an audience of Eastern sophisticates in Brooklyn would try his abilities.

As Lincoln was enjoying the invitation, startling news broke that threatened to upset the entire antislavery movement. On the evening of Monday, October 16, 1859, John Brown, a fifty-nine-year-old abolitionist, led a band of twenty-one men, sixteen white and five black, in a raid against the U.S. arsenal at Harpers Ferry in Virginia. Brown’s plan was to use the raid as an opening attack to provide slaves with arms. But Brown had failed to notify any slaves of his intentions. After thirty-six hours, with no rebellion incited, Brown and his men surrendered inside the arsenal on October 18 to a detachment of U.S. Marines commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee.

Leaders in the South, frightened, became furious when Brown aroused sympathy in the North. They quickly accused Northern abolitionists and Republicans of offering aid and comfort to such slave rebellions. Lincoln, the “Black Republican,” began preparations for his Brooklyn address as the nation’s politicians and newspapers continued to blame and praise Brown during his imprisonment and trial.

Lincoln took advantage of the long lead time to be “painstaking and thorough” in his research for his lecture. It was not as though he started fresh, for he had been building a foundation in his speeches in Ohio. But there was much work to do. Herndon observed Lincoln as “he searched through the dusty volumes of congressional proceedings in the State Library, and dug deeply into political history.”

On the last day of November 1859, Lincoln started for Kansas to fulfill a demanding speaking tour leading up to its crucial state election on December 6. On December 1, in the frontier town of Ellwood, on the evening before the hanging of John Brown, Lincoln offered his first public comment on the former Kansan. He stated that the attack by Brown was wrong for two reasons: It was “a violation of law” and “futile” in terms of its effect “on the extinction of a great evil.”

Traveling down the Missouri River to Leavenworth, Lincoln told his audience in crowded Stockton’s Hall that the election in Kansas was not about a popular sovereignty that did not care whether slavery was right or wrong, but solely about the morality of “the slavery question.” In his conclusion, Lincoln offered a dire warning. “Old John Brown has been executed for a crime against a state.” If Kansas decided to join with those who would “undertake to destroy the Union,” then “it will be our duty to deal with you as old John Brown has been dealt with.”

Lincoln returned home to discover that rumors were continuing to rock the Republican boat. In response to whispers that Lincoln might run for Trumbull’s Senate seat in 1860, and that Judd was secretly backing Trumbull, Lincoln said he would never run against Trumbull because “I would rather have a full term in the Senate than in the Presidency.”

In the middle of December, Judd traveled to New York for a meeting of the Republican National Committee to select the site for the 1860 Republican convention. The loyalists for each leading candidate came to lobby for a city favorable to their man. Judd listened patiently as Seward partisans argued for Buffalo, New York; Chase supporters made a case for Cleveland or Columbus, Ohio; Cameron’s people wanted Harris-burg, Pennsylvania; and Bates’s men lobbied for St. Louis, Missouri. Lincoln revealed the state of his thinking in a letter to Judd a week earlier. “I find some of our friends here, attach more consequence to getting the National convention into our State than I did, or do.” Fortunately for Lincoln, the astute Judd understood the importance of the choice better than the man he was representing. Judd argued that since Illinois did not have a leading candidate, Chicago would be an ideal neutral site. In the final vote, Chicago defeated St. Louis by one vote.

ON DECEMBER 20, 1859, a full year after Jesse Fell had asked for an autobiography, Lincoln wrote, “Herewith is a little sketch, as you requested. There is not much of it, for the reason, I supposed, that there is not much of me.” Lincoln included an instruction, “If anything is to be made out of it, I wish it be modest, and not to go beyond the mate rial,” and a restriction, “Of course it must not appear to have been written by myself.”

Lincoln surprised Fell by sending him only 606 words. In a political era of outsized campaign biographies, it was not what Fell was expecting.

I was born Feb. 12, 1809, in Hardin County, Kentucky. My parents were both born in Virginia, of undistinguished families—second families, perhaps I should say. My mother, who died in my tenth year, was of a family of the name of Hanks, some of whom now reside in Adams, and others in Macon counties, Illinois. My paternal grandfather, Abraham Lincoln, emigrated from Rockingham County, Virginia, to Kentucky, about 1781 or 2, where, a year or two later, he was killed by indians, not in battle, but by stealth, when [where?] he was laboring to open a farm in the forest. His ancestors, who were quakers, went to Virginia from Berks County, Pennsylvania. An effort to identify them with the New-England family of the same name ended in nothing more definite, than a similarity of Christian names in both families, such as Enoch, Levi, Mordecai, Solomon, Abraham, and the like.

My father, at the death of his father, was but six years of age; and he grew up, litterally without education. He removed from Kentucky to what is now Spencer county, Indiana, in my eighth year. We reached our new home about the time the State came into the Union. It was a wild region, with many bears and other wild animals still in the woods. There I grew up. There were some schools, so called; but no qualification was ever required of a teacher, beyond “readin, writin, and cipherin,” to the Rule of Three. If a straggler supposed to understand latin, happened to so-journ in the neighborhood, he was looked upon as a wizzard. There was absolutely nothing to excite ambition for education. Of course when I came of age I did not know much. Still somehow, I could read, write, and cipher to the Rule of Three; but that was all. I have not been to school since. The little advance I now have upon this store of education, I have picked up from time to time under the pressure of necessity.

I was raised to farm work, which I continued till I was twenty two. At twenty one I came to Illinois, and passed the first year in Macon county. Then I got to New-Salem (at that time in Sangamon, now in Menard county, where I remained a year as a sort of Clerk in a store. Then came the Black-Hawk war; and I was elected a Captain of Volunteers—a success which gave me more pleasure than any I have had since. I went the campaign, was elated, ran for the Legislature the same year (1832) and was beaten—the only time I ever have been beaten by the people. The next, and three succeeding biennial elections, I was elected to the Legislature. I was not a candidate afterwards. During this Legislative period I had studied law, and removed to Springfield to practice it. In 1846 I was once elected to the lower House of Congress. Was not a candidate for re-election. From 1849 to 1854, both inclusive, practiced law more assiduously than ever before. Always a whig in politics, and generally on the whig electoral tickets, making active canvasses. I was losing interest in politics, when the repeal of the Missouri Compromise aroused me again. What I have done since then is pretty well known.

If any personal description of me is thought desirable, it may be said, I am, in height, six feet, four inches, nearly; lean in flesh, weighing, on an average, one hundred and eighty pounds; dark complexion, with coarse black hair, and grey eyes—no other marks or brands recollected. Yours very truly A. LINCOLN

It was a spare autobiography at best. Lincoln offered no substantive comments on the past five years of his political career nor mention of the debates with Douglas.

Lincoln still struggled with uncertainty about his national political prospects, but his self-understanding was being shaped by the affirmation of others. In the last five months of 1859, he had tested the political waters by traveling more than four thousand miles to deliver twenty-three speeches. He looked forward to speaking in Brooklyn. Even if he was unsure whether he could stand equal to Seward, Chase, Cameron, and Bates, he had come to believe it was time to send forth a trial balloon by complying with Fell’s request.

Fell sent Lincoln’s autobiography to his friend Joseph J. Lewis, a prominent Republican lawyer in West Chester, Pennsylvania. Lewis was perplexed because he expected much more than the minuscule autobiography he received. He immediately wrote Fell asking for more information. Finally, Lewis wrote his own biography of Lincoln of nearly three thousand words and arranged for both biographies to be printed on February 11, 1860, in the Chester County Times. Copies were sent to other newspapers in Pennsylvania. The Chicago Press & Tribune printed the autobiography, with an editorial affirmation, on February 23.

WHEN THE CALENDAR TURNED the page to January 1, 1860, the presidential guessing game became more earnest. Lincoln understood that an early announcement of his candidacy would prompt criticism from rivals who, at this point, were pleased to consider him as a candidate for vice president. In the nineteenth century, the most successful candidate at party conventions was often the one who did not seem to be seeking the office.

On a cold January evening, when many lawyer-politicians were in Springfield arguing cases before the federal and Supreme Court, a small group of Republicans invited Lincoln to meet in the inner office of Illinois secretary of state Ozias Hatch. Some were thinking of nominating Lincoln as the favorite son of Illinois with no conviction that he could win. After considerable discussion, Lincoln was asked “if his name might be used at once in connection with the coming nomination and election.” Lincoln “with his characteristic modesty doubted whether he could get the nomination even if he wished it.” Someone then asked Lincoln, if he failed to get the nomination for president, would he accept the nomination for vice president. This time he did not hesitate. “No.” Lincoln requested that he could have until the next morning to consider their invitation to be a candidate for president.

How did Lincoln ponder this request? What did he say to Mary? He left no recollection about his deliberation or their discussion. The next morning he gave his friends permission, if they were “pleased” to do so, to work for him.

On a sunny February 8, 1860, the Republican State Central Committee met and selected Decatur and May 23 as the place and time of the Republican state convention. A person notably absent from the decision was Lincoln’s longtime friend Orville Browning. That evening Lincoln called upon Browning at Room 30½ at the American House. Browning, who was supporting Bates, recorded what Lincoln said in his daily diary. “It is not improbable that by the time the National convention meets in Chicago [Lincoln] may be of the opinion that the very best thing that can be done will be to nominate Mr. Bates.”

In January and February 1860, the newspapers proposing Lincoln’s name for the national ticket, both for vice president and president, grew in number. William O. Stoddard’s Central Illinois Gazette, in the thriving town of West Urbana (modern-day Champaign), was one of the first newspapers to place Lincoln’s name at the top of its columns in bold Gothic type. But these mastheads and editorial endorsements were mostly still in small-town papers.

On February 16, 1860, the Chicago Press & Tribune endorsed “the nomination of Lincoln for the first place on the National Republican ticket.” The Tribune, under the leadership of Joseph Medill and Charles Ray, was becoming a major paper in the West. Medill, previously an editor in Cleveland, had been courted in the fall by supporters of Senator Chase of Ohio. Medill traveled to Washington in December to speak with members of Congress. He stayed into January, buttonholing whomever he could to talk about Lincoln. Day by day, the Tribune printed Medill’s reports under the column “Presidential.” The forceful February 16 editorial, probably written by Ray but with input from state chairman Judd, declared that the Tribune’s endorsement of Lincoln was not simply as a favorite son, but as the one candidate who could carry Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Indiana, and Illinois. Medill followed up the editorial with a letter, signed “Chicago,” reporting that in Washington he now heard Lincoln’s name talked about for president “ten times as often as it was a month ago.”

ONE WEEK AFTER the Tribune’s endorsement, Lincoln prepared to leave for Brooklyn to seek an even larger endorsement. He was confident about his preparation because, as Herndon observed, “No former effort in the line of speech-making had cost Lincoln so much time and thought as this one.” On the morning of George Washington’s birthday, Lincoln boarded a train at 11:15. Mary prevailed upon him to take her trunk instead of his old worn luggage.

On his departure, the Democratic Illinois State Register offered its biting assessment of Lincoln’s mission: “SIGNIFICANT.—The Hon. Abraham Lincoln departs to day for Brooklyn, under the engagement to deliver a lecture before the Young Men’s Assn. of that city, in Beecher’s church. Subject, not known. Considerations, $200 and expenses. Object, presidential capital. Effect, disappointment.”

After two and a half days’ onerous travel aboard five trains, Lincoln’s long train trip ended on Saturday in Jersey City where he boarded the Paulus Street ferry for the trip across the Hudson River. Upon arriving at the splendid six-story Astor House, Lincoln learned for the first time that he would not deliver his lecture at Plymouth Congregational Church in Brooklyn, but at the Cooper Union in New York.

On Sunday, Lincoln worshipped at the church in Brooklyn Heights where he had expected to deliver his lecture. He came to hear Henry Ward Beecher, who had assumed the pulpit shortly after the church was formed in 1847. Lincoln had followed Beecher’s opposition to the Kansas-Nebraska Act and his aid to “bleeding Kansas.” Visitors from across the United States came to see and be seen as Beecher regularly preached to congregations of 2,500 on Sunday mornings. Worshippers would have noticed the tall Lincoln, as his custom was to stand, out of respect to a God whom he always called “The Almighty,” during morning prayers.

Lincoln attended Plymouth Congregational Church in Brooklyn Heights in order to hear Henry Ward Beecher, one of America’s most popular Protestant ministers.

On Monday, on a walking tour of New York, Lincoln entered the new studio of photographer Mathew Brady, located at the corner of Broadway and Bleecker Streets. Brady had opened his first Daguerreian Miniature Gallery in New York in 1844, and his first studio in Washington in 1849, where he photographed President Zachary Taylor and his cabinet. As Lincoln waited in the reception room, he met George Bancroft, the eminent historian whose work was popularly known as “Bancroft’s History” of the United States. Lincoln plied his humor on Bancroft. “I am on my way to Massachusetts where I have a son at school, if, report be true, already knows much more than his father.”

Brady invited Lincoln into his “operating room” and sized up his subject. The photographer asked if he might adjust Lincoln’s collar. “Ah,” responded Lincoln, “I see you want to shorten my neck.”

“That’s just it,” Brady answered, and both of them laughed. For the first time in his life, Lincoln was posed standing rather than sitting down. Brady’s use of a pillar behind Lincoln’s right shoulder, and a table with books at his left hand, suggested not a Western frontier man, but the kind of erudite Eastern man Brady usually photographed. The photographer found himself challenged by Lincoln’s new but crumpled black suit. Finally, one of Brady’s assistants opened the lens to capture Lincoln’s likeness on a wet-plate glass negative.

The photograph portrayed a Lincoln about to be auditioned at Cooper Union. It reflected Lincoln’s strength, but without the rough skin and tousled hair of earlier photographs. His firm expression, with his jaw set, may be attributed either to the ordeal of mid-nineteenth-century photography or to his self-confidence about that evening’s lecture.

Lincoln arrived at the redbrick Cooper Union on Seventh Street between Third and Fourth avenues as snow was falling. Peter Cooper’s experimental school was a beehive of free classes ranging from art to engineering. Shortly before eight o’clock, guests began arriving in the basement auditorium, ultimately filling about three-quarters of the 1,800 seats. William Cullen Bryant, editor of the New York Evening Post, who had met Lincoln briefly in Illinois during the Black Hawk War, introduced Lincoln as “a gallant soldier of the political campaign of 1858.”

Lincoln rose to speak. Charles C. Nott, a young lawyer and one of the event’s planners, described the speaker.

The first impression of the man from the West did nothing to contradict the expectation of something weird, rough, and uncultivated. The long, ungainly figure, upon which hung clothes that, while new for the trip, were evidently the work of an unskillful tailor; the large feet; the clumsy hands, of which, at the outset at least, the orator seemed to be unduly conscious; the long, gaunt head capped by a shock of hair that seemed not to have been thoroughly brushed out made a picture which did not fit in with New York’s conception of a finished statesman.

Lincoln began in his Indiana twang, “Mr. Cheerman …” After losing his place in his first few sentences, his nervousness dissipated and he settled in confidently to his long introduction, which achieved its power from his meticulous grasp of historical data. He had constructed his speech around a declaration Senator Douglas had made: “Our fathers, when they framed the Government under which we live, understood this question just as well, and even better, than we do now.” Lincoln stated, “I fully indorse this, and I adopt it as a text for this discourse.” In a remarkable rhetorical strategy, Lincoln would repeat Douglas’s declaration fifteen times in his speech.

As Lincoln began to question the meaning of Douglas’s words, one imagines that each time Lincoln repeated the question, the audience, becoming aware of Lincoln’s strategy, leaned forward in their seats, eager to hear how this resourceful Westerner would question, probe, rebut, and reframe Douglas’s affirmation. At the same time, Lincoln asked the question that had steered his meticulous research: “Does the proper division of local from federal authority, or anything in the Constitution, forbid our Federal Government to control as to slavery in our Federal Territories?”

Lincoln enthralled his audience. He started by identifying the thirty-nine “fathers” as those who signed the Constitution at the Constitutional Convention in 1787. He inquired how those thirty-nine expressed their understanding about the expansion of slavery into the territories in both preceding and following years through legislative votes. He specified the persons voting: four in 1784, two in 1787, seventeen in 1789, three in 1798, two in 1804, and two in 1819–20. Some voted on the issue more than once. Lincoln found twenty-three had made choices concerning this question, with no proof of the other sixteen acting in any way. Twenty-one of the twenty-three who understood the question “better than we,” acted consistently under the belief that the federal government did have the right to exercise power over slavery in the territories.

Lincoln’s Cooper Union speech was really three speeches in one. With a transitional, “But enough!” Lincoln proceeded from speaking to the North to speaking to the South. He knew there was probably no one from the South in the audience, but, nevertheless, “if they would listen—as I suppose they will not—I address a few words to the Southern people.” What followed was a brief but powerful rhetorical section in which Lincoln convened a colloquy of accusations and answers.

You say we are sectional.

We deny it.

You say we have made the slavery question more prominent than it formerly was.

We deny it.

You charge that we stir up insurrections among your slaves.

We deny it.

Lincoln said that Southerners loved to quote George Washington’s warning against sectionalism in his Farewell Address but conveniently forgot that Washington had earlier signed the act “enforcing the prohibition of slavery in the Northwestern Territory.” Lincoln’s aim, by this and other examples, was to show that the responsibility for the divisional discord lay not with the North but with the South.

“But you will not abide the election of a Republican President!” Lincoln sealed this second section by a declaration and a story. “You say, you will destroy the Union; and then, you say, the great crime of having destroyed it will be upon us!” Lincoln asked his audience to imagine a highwayman holding a pistol to his ear and then muttering: “ ‘Stand and deliver, or I shall kill you, and then you will be a murderer!’ ”

In the final section, Lincoln spoke “a few words now to Republicans.” After summarizing his historical arguments, he offered a ringing ethical avowal. This speech, as indeed Lincoln’s political posture in 1860, has often been depicted as conservative, but his conclusion is directed toward those conservative Republicans who would concede too much to the South in search of an ephemeral peace. He made his point with a compelling cadence of question and answer.

Will they be satisfied if the Territories be unconditionally surrendered to them?

We know they will not.

Will it satisfy them if… we have nothing to do with invasions and insurrections?

We know it will not.

Lincoln finally asked: “What will convince them?” His answer: “This, and this only: cease to call slavery wrong, and join them in calling it right.” Lincoln’s Cooper Union address concluded with an ethical imperative, first what we cannot do, and second, in a sentence that Lincoln capitalized, what we must do.

Neither let us be slandered from our duty by false accusations against us, nor frightened from it by menaces of destruction to the Government nor of dungeons to ourselves. LET US HAVE FAITH THAT RIGHT MAKES MIGHT, AND IN THAT FAITH, LET US, TO THE END, DARE TO DO OUR DUTY AS WE UNDERSTAND IT.

When Lincoln concluded, the audience leapt to its feet in volley after volley of applause. The next day, four New York newspapers published the entire text of the address. Horace Greeley, in the Tribune, offered his wholehearted praise. “Mr. Lincoln is one of Nature’s orators, using his rare powers solely and effectively to elucidate and to convince, though their inevitable effect is to delight and electrify as well.”

At Cooper Union, Lincoln exhibited not only oratorical eloquence but political sagacity. Speaking in Seward’s home state, invited by a person partial to Chase, with the shadow of the Little Giant following him, Lincoln understood he needed to deflate, if not defeat, both Seward and Douglas, and place himself in the moderate center of the Republican Party. Eschewing Western stump-style speaking, with its heavy use of humor and satire, Lincoln demonstrated that his increasingly broad range of oratory could connect with an elite audience of the leaders of New York society.

The most telling appraisal may have come from Mayson Brayman, a Springfield lawyer who had lived in Lincoln’s home when he was in Washington during his term in Congress. Brayman, a Democrat, had been asked by Lincoln to stand in the back of the hall and raise his hat on a cane if Lincoln’s voice was not being heard. The next day, Brayman wrote to William Bailhache, an owner of the Illinois State Journal, of the transformation he had witnessed at Cooper Union. Brayman found it “somewhat funny, to see a man who at home, talks along in so familiar a way, walking up and down, swaying about, swinging his arms, bobbing forward, telling droll stories and laughing at them himself, here in New-York, standing up stiff and straight, with his hands quiet, pronouncing sentence after sentence, in good telling English.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY, Lincoln left for New England. He had long planned to visit his son Bob at Exeter, in New Hampshire, but after Cooper Union he accepted requests to speak in three New England states. Over the next eleven days, Lincoln delivered eleven speeches, with a day for rest on the Sabbath. After speaking in Providence, Rhode Island, he delivered speeches in New Hampshire at Concord; Manchester, where he was introduced as the next president of the United States; Dover; and finally at the town hall at Exeter. All of his speeches were variations on the themes of his Cooper Union address.

Lincoln spent Saturday and Sunday with Bob at Phillips Exeter Academy. He was proud of his oldest son, but there never seemed to be the same bond between them as there was with Tad and Willie, whom Lincoln often spoiled. Now, with the two younger boys not present, a distinctive opportunity presented itself for the father and his eldest son to become companions. After Bob’s painful humiliation of being denied entrance to Harvard, father Abraham was pleased and proud of his son’s commitment to education at Exeter. On Sunday, “according to Bob’s orders,” Lincoln worshipped at Second Congregational Church. In the evening, Bob invited some of his friends to meet his suddenly famous father.

Lincoln visited his oldest son, Robert, a student at Phillips Exeter in Exeter, New Hampshire, immediately after speaking at Cooper Union.

A letter from James Briggs was waiting for Lincoln in Exeter. Briggs, the man who had invited Lincoln to speak at Cooper Union, was ec static. “Enclosed please find ‘check’ for $200. I would that it were $200,000. for you are worthy of it.”

Lincoln wrote Mary from Exeter, “I have been unable to escape this toil. If I had foreseen it, I think I would not have come east at all.” He offered his understated assessment of the Cooper Union address. “The speech at New York, being within my calculation before I started, went off passably well and gave me no trouble whatever.” He told Mary of the problem of speaking “before reading audiences who had already seen all my ideas in print.”

Leaving Bob on Monday morning, March 5, 1860, Lincoln proceeded to Hartford, Connecticut. During the day Lincoln talked with Gideon Welles at Brown and Gross’s bookstore. Welles, an ex-Democrat, was a member of the Republican National Committee. It was common knowledge that Welles despised Seward, who he believed was a spokesman for special interests in neighboring New York. Lincoln and Welles met again in the afternoon at the offices of the Hartford Evening Press, which Welles founded in 1856 to foster the Republican cause.

As Lincoln traveled through New England, he became aware of what was being called “the great shoemakers’ strike.” The strike began in Lynn, Massachusetts, but quickly spread to other New England states. Controversy raged over the rights of shoemakers to strike for better wages and conditions. Lincoln, responding to the strikes, declared at Hartford, “I am glad to know that there is a system of labor where the laborer can strike if he wants to! I would to God that such a system prevailed all over the world.”

After completing his speech, Lincoln was escorted to his hotel by the “Wide-Awakes,” a newly formed group of young Republican men who marched in solemn military procession with torches held aloft. They adopted their name from a recent Hartford Courantdescription of them as “wide awake.” The men, who wore glazed hats and capes to shield them from the oil of the torches, injected color into political campaigns and sheltered Republican marchers from the brickbats of Democratic spectators.

The next evening, Lincoln took the night express train from Bridgeport, Connecticut, to New York. After hearing Dr. Beecher one more time on Sunday morning, he asked to visit the Five Points House of Industry, an industrial mission reaching out to abandoned children established in 1852 by Lewis M. Pease, an inventive Methodist minister.

On Monday, March 12, 1860, after more than two weeks in the East, Lincoln departed on the Erie Railroad across New York. He was in demand for more speeches but had decided it was time to return west with bracing Eastern political winds at his back. New York and New England had proved to be decisive in his journey of self-discovery.

LINCOLN FELT TIRED but renewed upon his return to Springfield. His trip to New York, and his often overlooked circuit of New England, had turned out to be a listening as well as a speaking tour. In places that he had only read about, he heard from new friends about possibilities for higher political office that he had barely allowed himself to think about not many months before. Back home, his old friends rushed to offer “earnest congratulations” for his success in the East. Newspaper conjecture about Lincoln and the Republicans’ convention in Chicago rushed ahead. The Chicago Press & Tribune and the Illinois State Journal had kept their readers abreast of Lincoln’s speaking tour by printing the accolades from the New York and New England newspapers. The Cooper Union address, published in pamphlet form by the New York Tribune, was about to be published by the Illinois State Journal. Herndon observed that Lincoln’s “recent success had stimulated his self-confidence.” It was as if the affirmation he had received in New York and New England finally convinced a cautious Lincoln that he had the support to seek the highest office in the land. Herndon observed, “It was apparent now to Lincoln that the Presidential nomination was within his reach.”

In the last week of March, Lincoln traveled to Chicago to participate in the “Sandbar Case” before Judge Thomas Drummond in the federal court. While in Chicago, sculptor Leonard Volk asked him to sit for a bust. Volk had studied sculpture in Italy, a trip sponsored by his brother-in-law, Stephen Douglas. Honoring Lincoln’s busy schedule, Volk decided to keep the sessions to a minimum by beginning with a life mask. Lincoln endured with good humor the process of letting wet plaster dry on his face and then Volk’s removing it by stretching his skin.

Lincoln’s success in the East evidenced itself in expanded support in Illinois. At the end of February 1860, the Republican National Committee had announced they were moving the starting date of the Chicago convention up from June 13 to May 16. In March and April, Lincoln and his advisers set out to translate this surge of goodwill into hard votes at the rapidly approaching convention.

An unexpected benefit of speaking in Ohio, Kansas, New York, and New England was a new group of friends and self-appointed advisers. From Columbus, Samuel Galloway, a lawyer and politician, wrote to offer an astute evaluation of the other candidates in the field. He wanted Lincoln to know that “there will be but little fervent attachment to Mr Chase in the Ohio delegation.” Galloway predicted that “after one or two ballotings he will not receive more than 1/4th of the vote.” As for Seward, he “will doubtless enter the Convention with the largest plurality vote—He cannot however be nominated unless Pennsylvania & New Jersey give him their votes.” Lincoln must have been heartened when Galloway concluded, “The concurrent opinion of our most intelligent politicians is that either you or Bates will be nominated.”

Lincoln, in his reply, revealed his thinking on his chances. “My name is new in the field; and I suppose I am not the first choice of a very great many.” Starting from this assumption, Lincoln laid out his campaign strategy. “Our policy, then, is to give no offence to others—leave them in a mood to come to us, if they shall be compelled to give up their first love.”

From Connecticut, James F. Babcock, editor of the New Haven Palladium and host for Lincoln’s lecture in March, wrote, “I have heard your name mentioned more freely than ever in Connection with the Chicago nomination, and by some who have had other views, or whose feelings were previously committed in favor of another.” Connecticut and Rhode Island, unlike Massachusetts, were conservative states that would not back Seward.

Lincoln replied to Babcock in a tone both curious and cautious. “As to the Presidential nomination, claiming no greater exemption from selfishness than is common, I still feel that my whole aspiration should be, and therefore must be, to be placed anywhere, or nowhere, as may appear most likely to advance our cause.” While not making known his intentions to Babcock, he did include the names of eleven “confidential friends” in Ohio, Iowa, and Illinois “with whom you might correspond.”

On April 29, 1860, two and a half weeks before the Republican convention in Chicago, Lincoln offered his most direct comment yet on his candidacy. Senator Trumbull had written Lincoln with a detailed evaluation of the various candidates, and asked “to be put fully in possession of your views.” Lincoln replied, “As you request, I will be entirely frank. The taste is in my mouth, a little.” The “a little” has often been left off Lincoln’s declaration when quoted. Lincoln’s letter was significant because it showed him willing to discuss with Trumbull the strengths and weaknesses of Seward, Bates, and Judge John McLean, the latter being the candidate Trumbull favored.

When Lincoln wrote Trumbull, he was still awaiting the results of the Democratic convention in Charleston, South Carolina, “to know who is to lead our adversaries.” He understood that the choice of the Democratic candidate in Charleston could well influence the choice of the Republican candidate in Chicago. He would have a long wait.

The Democratic convention had begun on April 23, 1860, with a clash between Douglas supporters’ promotion of popular sovereignty and Southern delegates’ insistence on a federal slave code for the territories. The discordant convention culminated in fifty delegates from Southern states walking out. After ten days and fifty-seven ballots, unable to nominate their presidential candidate, the convention disbanded on May 3 with the decision to meet again six weeks later in the friendlier environs of Baltimore.

IT HAS OFTEN been suggested that Lincoln was his own political manager, but this judgment does not explain the effectiveness of his campaign. Offered as a way to extol Lincoln’s political genius, it actually undervalues the astute ways he worked with colleagues. Lincoln’s genius was his ability to draw upon the talents of others, meld together diverse personalities who often did not trust one another, and then listen to their advice, recognizing that it was sometimes wiser than his own.

David Davis laid aside his judicial robes to become Lincoln’s campaign manager in 1860. Lincoln said of his corpulent friend, “I keep no secrets from him.” Leonard Swett, inseparable from Lincoln and Davis on the Eighth Judicial Circuit, told Lincoln in December 1854 to use him in any way that could help him and continued, unceasingly, to offer his services in all of Lincoln’s election campaigns. Norman Judd, the former anti-Nebraska Democrat whom Trumbull described as “the shrewdest politician … in the State,” was Lincoln’s key adviser in 1858 and would play a crucial role in 1860.

Lincoln’s advisers, many self-appointed, never functioned as a single, organized group, instead relating to Lincoln singly or in groups of three or four. They served as his agents in the quite different northern, central, and southern sections of Illinois. Up until the spring of 1860, advisory meetings were mostly held on an on-call basis, related to Lincoln’s being in the vicinity or to deal with a specific problem or issue.

In early May 1860, delegates converged on Decatur for the state Republican convention. Lincoln’s advisers realized it was crucial that he arrive in Chicago with the unanimous support of the Illinois delegation with its twenty-two votes, but this would not be easy, as Seward enjoyed support in northern Illinois and Bates in southern Illinois. Lincoln arrived on May 8 but did not plan to participate in the meeting. On May 9, Decatur resident Richard J. Oglesby, chairman of the convention, announced, “I am informed that a distinguished citizen of Illinois, and one whom Illinois will ever delight to honor, is present, and I wish to move that this body invite him to a seat on the stand.” With a flair for the dramatic, he paused and finally shouted: “Abraham Lincoln!” Cheers shook the fragile tent. Lincoln was found, apprehended, and to his surprise began to be passed “kicking, scrambling—crawling—upon the sea of heads” to the stage at the front of the tent. When Lincoln was finally upright, he “rose bowing and blushing,” and thanked the convention for their “Manifestations of Esteem.”

The dramatics had only begun. Oglesby was about to become yet another friend who wished to define Lincoln. He announced that an “Old Democrat had something he wished to present to this meeting.” The cry went up: “Receive it!—Receive it!” Nineteenth-century politics was replete with political nicknames: “Old Hickory” in 1828, “Tippecanoe and Tyler Too” in 1840, and “The Pathfinder” in 1856. By 1860, Lincoln was most often referred to as “Old Abe.” Oglesby was certain that sobriquet was not sufficient.

Oglesby knew that old John Hanks, the first cousin of Lincoln’s mother, who as a young man had lived on and off with the Lincolns for four years in Indiana, was a resident of Decatur. Hanks was a Democrat, but no matter. Oglesby got in touch with Hanks and went with him to get some black walnut and honey locust rails that Lincoln and Hanks had split together thirty years earlier during Lincoln’s first year in Illinois.

From the back of the tent, John Hanks and a friend marched triumphantly in carrying two rails and a banner that read:

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

The Rail Candidate

FOR PRESIDENT IN 1860

TWO RAILS FROM A LOT OF 3,000 MADE IN 1830

BY THOS. HANKS AND ABE LINCOLN—WHOSE

FATHER WAS THE FIRST PIONEER IN MACON COUNTY

The banner was not completely correct, for it was John, the bearer of the sign, who had split the rails, and Thomas Lincoln was not the first pioneer in Macon County. But no one in the assembly cared about accuracy at that moment as they burst into applause that went on for more than ten minutes. When Lincoln finally stood to acknowledge their acclaim, he recalled that when he immigrated to Illinois he spent a season in Macon County and helped cultivate a farm on the Sangamon River, where he built a cabin and “split rails.”

“Honest Abe” could not vouch that he had split the rails brought to the tent, but “he had mauled many and many better ones since he had grown to manhood.” The cheers started up again. The symbol of “the Rail Splitter,” pointing to the rights of free labor as opposed to slave labor, added a new emotion to the Lincoln boom.

ON MAY 12, 1860, Harper’s Weekly published a double-page illustrations displaying the faces of eleven “prominent candidates” for the Republican nomination to be decided at Chicago. Front and center in the lithograph was the craggy face of Seward. In the bottom row, to the left, was the Brady photograph of Lincoln. The biographies of the contenders were on another page. Lincoln’s biography was the last and the least.

Harper’s Weekly published on May 12, 1860, images of all the candidates for the Republican presidential nomination. Lincoln’s image is far away from the center, which is occupied by William Seward, an indication of the magazine’s estimation of their chances for the nomination.

Special trains crammed full of delegates began arriving in Chicago on May 12 and 13, 1860. Most Republicans came to Chicago expecting that a man of great reputation and long public service would be the nominee. Seward and Chase, both of whom had served as senator and governor, fit that bill. Both had strong antislavery credentials, with Chase to the left of Seward. However, after attacks on Republicans about the John Brown affair, many delegates were eager to embrace a more moderate voice as their standard-bearer in 1860. Simon Cameron, a tall Scot, newspaper editor, businessman, and senator, could fit that profile, but a reputation for unsavory business practices stuck with him, and he was having trouble picking up support beyond his native Pennsylvania. One time slaveholder Edward Bates, living tranquilly in St. Louis, was not presently holding elective office but had advanced his candidacy by writing public and private letters. Lincoln thought highly of Bates’s chances as a safe, conservative alternative to Seward and Chase. Bates’s major stumbling block was his nativist record, which frightened the large German populations in Illinois and Wisconsin. Editor Horace Greeley, once a strong supporter of Seward but now a major player in the stop-Seward movement, was putting his chips on Bates. Associate Supreme Court Justice John McLean was seventy-five years old in 1860 but appealed to some who embraced the safe values of the past. Lincoln had supported his candidacy for the Republican nomination in 1856.

Chicago was a jaunty city of more than one hundred thousand people whose jerry-built buildings hollered that it was a city in a hurry. Rapidly becoming the manufacturing and trade center of the Midwest, the city boasted fifteen railroads. The spires of fifty-six churches dominated the skyline. Most of the streets were paved only with long oak planks, beneath which lived an army of rats that came out each night to ravage the city’s uncollected garbage. The arriving delegates encountered buildings decorated with festive banners and bunting. The fastest growing city in America wanted to put on its best face—a largely Republican one—which could lend a hand to “Old Abe.” The center of activity was “the Wigwam,” a structure 100 by 180 feet, built to accommodate ten thousand people. Inside the Wigwam were patriotic displays of state coats of arms, flags, and busts of distinguished Americans.

The Republican convention met in the Wigwam, a tentlike structure built to hold upward of ten thousand people.

On May 12, 1860, David Davis arrived in Chicago to find that all the major candidates had established headquarters except Lincoln. He promptly rented two rooms at the Tremont House, paid the bill from his own pocket, and went to work around the clock. He drew together an inner circle of managers: lawyers from the old Eighth Circuit such as Leonard Swett, Stephen Logan, and Henry C. Whitney; several of Lincoln’s political colleagues, including Norman Judd, Jesse Fell, Jesse Dubois, and Ozias Hatch; and newspapermen Joseph Medill and Charles Ray. Davis gave each man specific assignments. Almost everyone in Illinois was from somewhere else, so Davis dispatched his associates to visit the delegations of their home states: Richard Yates and Stephen Logan to work on delegates from Kentucky; Swett to speak with delegates from Maine; and Ward Hill Lamon, an old lawyer friend, to lobby the Virginia delegation. Orville Browning had told Lincoln in February he was supporting Bates, but he had a change of heart and proved invaluable in speaking with delegates leaning toward the St. Louisian.

The massive Davis sat behind a large table receiving reports from his lieutenants. From time to time, he would speak with an arriving state delegation. A critical delegation was Indiana, with twenty-six votes, which arrived with a majority for Bates. Davis understood that Lincoln, aside from being simply a favorite son, needed to garner votes from some other states on the first ballot if he was to make a move on the second and third ballots. It was Davis’s policy not to put other candidates down, but to lift Lincoln up. His purpose was to secure pledges that Lincoln would be a delegation’s second choice to which they would turn if their first choice faltered.

In Springfield, Lincoln was biding his time between his law office and the telegraph office on the north side of the public square. The accepted protocol was that candidates not appear at conventions. Lincoln told Swett, “He was almost too much of a candidate to go, and not quite enough to stay home.” Lincoln’s team in Chicago was a good deal more confident than the candidate himself. On May 13, 1860, Dubois wired Lincoln, “We are here in great confusion things this evening look as favorable as we had any right to expect.”

On Tuesday, May 14, 1860, one day before the convention opened, the Chicago Press & Tribune ran a huge headline: “The Winning Man—Abraham Lincoln.” Lincoln received numerous telegrams from friends and advisers in Chicago. Nathan M. Knapp, chairman of the Scott County Republican Committee, who had long believed that Lincoln did not fully appreciate “his own power,” sent a telegram after conversations with the Indiana delegation. “Things are working; keep a good nerve—be not surprised at any result.” He told Lincoln, “We are laboring to make you the second choice of all the Delegations we can where we cannot make you first choice.”

On this tumultuous Tuesday, some of Lincoln’s friends were signaling him that it might help if he were present in Chicago to make his case and answer questions, but Davis and Dubois were adamant: “Dont come unless we send for you.” Editor Ray of the Chicago Tribune sent what Lincoln must have received as a mixed message. “Don’t be too sanguine. Matters now look well and as things stand to-day I had rather have your chances than those of any other man. But don’t get excited.”

The convention opened at noon on Wednesday, May 16, 1860. As the proceedings began in the Wigwam, twice as many watched outside as could fit inside. The first afternoon was devoted to organization and the appointment of committees.

Thursday, May 17, 1860, a warm, balmy day, was devoted to the adoption of the platform, which tempered the tone but not the basic conviction of the 1856 convention’s condemnation of the extension of slavery. The platform also contained planks that Lincoln had long supported: a protective tariff, dear to the hearts of Pennsylvania and New Jersey delegates; federal support for rivers and harbors, important for Chicago and Detroit; a homestead act for free land, which was imperative for farmers in the West and for German-Americans; and building a railroad to the Pacific Ocean, supported by delegates from Iowa, Missouri, Oregon, and California.

The Illinois delegation took little part in the public platform debates because they were trolling for votes in private meetings with key delegations. The Lincoln camp knew that Seward was strongest in the northern tier of states where Republicans could expect to win in 1860—Maine, Massachusetts, New York, Michigan, Wisconsin, and Mnnesota. The most intense attention was focused on the four crucial states that Buchanan had won in 1856—Illinois, Indiana, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey.

On the same day, Edward L. Baker, editor of the Illinois State Journal, arrived in Chicago. He brought with him a copy of the Missouri Democrat, which he handed to Davis. Lincoln had written in pencil on the edge of the paper: “Make no contracts that will bind me.” It has long been debated how Davis did or did not act upon this message. At the time, he was negotiating with Pennsylvania and its rich harvest of fifty-four votes. If Senator Simon Cameron of Pennsylvania could be offered a cabinet post, it might make the difference, but Lincoln was signaling that he would have none of it. Davis may have offered a position to Cameron, but it is more likely he said that certainly Pennsylvania would deserve a place in a Lincoln cabinet. Lincoln’s terse instruction revealed his earliest thought on the way he intended to govern.

IN CHICAGO, balloting commenced on Friday, May 18, 1860, at 10 a.m. Davis may have been the campaign manager, but no one had prepared for this day longer than Judd. As the one who had secured the convention for Chicago, he took charge of seating arrangements, placing the New York and Pennsylvania delegations at opposite ends of the Wigwam where they would have great difficulty conversing. As a railroad lawyer, he arranged for special excursion fares to bring Lincoln supporters from all over the state. Finally, Judd had extra tickets printed, so that on Friday morning additional Lincoln supporters arrived at the Wigwam early, thereby denying places to Seward supporters. Once inside, the Lincoln “shouters” drowned out the outnumbered Seward backers.

In Springfield, Lincoln braced himself for rebuff once again. At eight-thirty he walked over to James Conkling’s law office located over Chatterton’s jewelry store. Lincoln had learned that Conkling, who had been at the Republican convention, had unexpectedly returned from Chicago. Conkling was out, but later in the morning Lincoln found his friend in. Stretching his long frame on an old settee by the front window, Lincoln asked Conkling what he expected to happen that day at the convention. Conkling answered that he believed Lincoln would be nominated because there was so much opposition to Seward. Lincoln replied that “he hardly thought this possible,” and that if Seward was blocked, the nomination would go to Bates or Chase. Lincoln presently declared, “Well, Conkling, I believe I will go back to my office and practice law. ”

In Chicago, Seward’s name was the first to be placed in nomination by the renowned lawyer William M. Evarts. Judd stood second to nominate Lincoln. Caleb B. Smith of Indiana, who had served in Congress with Lincoln, seconded the nomination.

The clerk began the balloting, not by alphabetical order, as is the custom today, but by geographical order. The clerk shouted, “Maine.” Maine gave ten votes to Seward and six votes to Lincoln: surprise. But Maine’s split vote was no surprise to Davis and his lieutenants. New York cast its seventy votes for Seward. No surprise.

In Springfield, just before noon, editor Baker burst into Lincoln’s office with the results of the first ballot: Seward 173½; Lincoln 102; Cameron 50½; Chase 49; Bates 48; and McLean 12. Lincoln and his advisers believed that Seward had arrived in Chicago with at least 150 votes. Lincoln knew that Seward’s vote total had to include all 70 votes from New York, the largest state. This meant Seward had barely more than 100 votes from the other delegations. The most heartening news was that Indiana cast all of its 26 votes for Lincoln. Lincoln had told Browning that Bates could well be the benefactor of the stop-Seward movement, but no state gave the majority of its votes to Bates. Two hundred thirty-three votes were needed for the nomination.

In Chicago, delegates cried out, “Call the Roll,” eager for the second ballot to begin. Vermont. The Green Mountain state, which had given its ten votes on the first ballot to favorite son Senator Jacob Col-lamer, called out, “Ten votes for Lincoln.” Lincoln garnered five new votes from Rhode Island and Connecticut, where he had spoken so effectively not more than two months earlier. The Keystone state, Pennsylvania, which every delegate knew was critical to a Republican victory in 1860, after some delay, called out “Forty-eight votes for Lincoln.” A gain of forty-four votes. The vast army of Lincoln supporters inside and outside the Wigwam shouted and cheered. Delaware changed all six of its votes from Bates to Lincoln. The clerk continued, with Lincoln picking up a few votes here and there as the roll call moved west.

William H. Seward, senator from New York, arrived in Chicago as the leading candidate.

The results of the second balloting were announced: Seward 184½; Lincoln 181; Chase 42½; Bates 35; Dayton 10; McLean 8; Cameron 2; and Clay 2. Lincoln had picked up seventy-nine votes while Seward gained only eleven. Instantly, everyone knew Lincoln was gaining.

In Springfield, Lincoln was fidgety. He decided to walk over to the Illinois and Mississippi telegraph office to see if there were any new telegrams. Finding none, he proceeded to the offices of the Illinois State Journal. On the way over he stopped to talk with some young men with whom he had played the game of “fives,” an early form of handball, on the previous day. After a few minutes, a telegram arrived with the surprising results of the second ballot.

In Chicago, the third ballot began immediately amid tremendous excitement inside and outside the Wigwam. Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont: no changes. Massachusetts took four votes from Seward and gave them to Lincoln. Lincoln also gained in Rhode Island, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Kentucky. The clerk called Ohio. Lincoln had spoken in Ohio and earned friends there. Medill, who had lived in Ohio for more than twenty years before moving to Chicago, had been sitting in and working on the Ohio delegation. The Wigwam gasped when Ohio awarded Lincoln twenty-nine votes, a pickup of fifteen.

As the roll call moved west, hundreds of pencils scratched everywhere, keeping a running tally. Lincoln had now reached 231½. He needed only one and a half more votes to be nominated. David Cartter, chairman of the Ohio delegation, a Cleveland lawyer, rose to speak in a Wigwam suddenly silent. “I-I a-a-rise, Mr. Chairman, to a-a-nounce”—Cartter stuttered, as he always did—“the c-c-change of f-four votes, from Mr. Chase to Abraham Lincoln.”

In Springfield, where Lincoln sat in a large armchair in the offices of the Journal, a telegram was run in telling him he was nominated on the third ballot. Another telegram, moments later, told him that the New York delegation moved to make the nomination unanimous. More and more telegrams poured in, including one from Nathan Knapp: “We did it—glory to God.” Lincoln accepted congratulations all around. Presently he told the growing throng of friends, “Well gentlemen there is a little woman at our house who is probably more interested in this dispatch than I am.”

Shortly after Lincoln’s nomination as the Republican candidate, he sat for this photograph in Springfield at the suggestion of campaign biographer Joseph H. Barrett.

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