Authors: Doris Kearns Goodwin
Six months later, Seward delivered another provocative speech that, like the “higher law” speech, would be indelibly linked to his name. Catering to the emotions of an ardent Republican gathering overflowing in Corinthian Hall in Rochester, New York, Seward argued that the United States was divided by two “incompatible” political and economic systems, which had developed divergent cultures, values, and assumptions. The free labor system had uneasily coexisted with slave labor, he observed, until recent advances in transportation, communication, and commerce increasingly brought the two “into closer contact.” A catastrophic “collision” was inevitable. “Shall I tell you what this collision means?” he asked his audience. “They who think that it is accidental, unnecessary, the work of interested or fanatical agitators, and therefore ephemeral, mistake the case altogether. It is an
irrepressible conflict
between opposing and enduring forces, and it means that the United States must and will, sooner or later, become either entirely a slaveholding nation, or entirely a free-labor nation.”
Frances Seward was thrilled with her husband’s speech, believing its radical tone completely warranted by the increasingly aggressive stance of the South. Indeed, for all those fighting against slavery, the words “irrepressible conflict” provided a mighty battle cry. Seward had defined the sectional conflict as driven by fundamental differences rather than the machinations of extremists who exaggerated discord for their own political ends. He had taken his stand on an issue, Kenneth Stampp suggests, “that troubled the politicians of his generation as it has since troubled American historians: Was the conflict that ultimately culminated in the Civil War
repressible
or
irrepressible
?”
The speech produced an uproar in opposition papers. The Albany
Atlas and Argus
claimed that Seward was no longer content with restricting slavery to its present domain, but threatening to end slavery in South Carolina and Georgia. With this speech, the
New York Herald
claimed, Seward had thrown off his mask to reveal a “more repulsive abolitionist, because a more dangerous one, than Beecher, Garrison or [Massachusetts minister Theodore] Rev. Dr. Parker.”
Seward, in fact, was not an abolitionist. He had long maintained that slavery in the states where it already existed was beyond the reach of national power. When he told of a nation without slavery, he referred to long-run historical forces and the inevitable triumph of an urbanizing, industrializing society. To Southerners, however, Seward seemed to be threatening the forced extinction of slavery and the permanent subjugation of the South. Seward, the historian William Gienapp suggests, “never comprehended fully the power of his words.” He failed to anticipate the impact that such radical phrases as “higher law” and “irrepressible conflict” would have on the moderate image he wished to project. Long after the incendiary words had been spoken, Seward conceded that “if heaven would forgive him for stringing together two high sounding words, he would never do it again.”
Ironically, while Seward was applauded in the antislavery North for his radical rhetoric, he was by temperament fundamentally conciliatory, eager to use his charisma and good-natured manner to unify the nation and find a peaceful solution to the sectional crisis. From his earliest days in politics, Seward had trusted the warmth and power of his personality to bridge any divide, so long as he could deal one-on-one with his adversaries. When his first election to the Senate was greeted with “alarm and apprehension” throughout the South, he remained placid. Although his positions on immigration, public education, the protective tariff, internal improvements, and above all, slavery made him a symbol of everything the South abhorred about the North, Seward’s confidence was unshaken. “This general impression only amuses me,” he wrote, “for I think that I shall prove as gentle a lion as he who played that part before the Duke, in the ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream.’”
He remained true to his resolve. “Those who assailed him with a view to personal controversy were disturbed by continual failures to provoke his anger,” a contemporary recalled. The story was told and retold of a Southern senator who delivered an abusive speech against Seward, labeling him “an infidel and a traitor.” When the senator resumed his seat, “heated and shaken with the fierce frenzy” of his own ire, Seward walked over to his chair and “sympathetically offered him a pinch of snuff.”
Within the Washington community, Seward’s extravagant dinner parties were legendary, attended by Northerners and Southerners alike. No one showed greater acumen in reconciling the most contentious politicians in a relaxing evening atmosphere. Throughout the 1850s, the New Yorker used such dinners to maintain cordial relations with everyone, from Jefferson Davis of Mississippi and John Crittenden of Kentucky to Charles Sumner and Charles Francis Adams of Massachusetts. Seward was a superb master of ceremonies, putting all at ease with his amiable disposition. Though an inveterate storyteller himself, he would draw the company into lively conversations ranging from literature and science to theater and history.
A woman who was present at one of these feasts recalled that seventeen courses were served, beginning with turtle soup. The plates were changed with each serving of fish, meat, asparagus, sweetbreads, quail, duck, terrapin, ice cream, and “beautiful pyramids of iced fruits, oranges, french kisses.” By each place setting there stood wineglasses, “five in number, of different size, form and color, indicating the different wines to be served.” After dinner, coffee was served to the women in the parlor while the men gathered in the study to enjoy after-dinner liqueurs, and cigars ordered specially from Cuba. Through these Bacchanalian feasts, “by the juice of the grape, and even certain distillations from peaches and corn,” Seward endeavored, one reporter suggested, “to give his guests good cheer, and whether they are from the North or South, keep them in the bonds of good fellowship. Strange rumors have often crept out from Washington and startled the people, to the effect, that fire-eaters have been known to visit the house of the great New Yorker, and come away mellow with the oil of gladness, purple with the essence of the fruit of the wine.”
Seward’s social engagements did not lessen when Congress was out of session. The summer after the
Dred Scott
decision was handed down, he invited Francis Blair, Sr., and his wife, Eliza, to accompany him on a trip through Canada. Joining the party were Seward’s son Fred and Fred’s young wife, Anna. Though he understood that the Blairs were far more conservative than he, Seward trusted that his charm would win their support for the nomination in 1860.
The “voyage of discovery,” as Blair later described the trip, took the travelers through Niagara Falls, Toronto, and the Thousand Islands to the coast of Labrador. The sprightly Blairs, who seemed far younger than their years, enjoyed the adventure thoroughly. In an exuberant letter of thanks, Blair told Seward he was the “very best traveling companion,” who not only made every stop “doubly interesting” by his gifts as a storyteller, but had taken pains to remove all the hardships of the voyage, providing secure sleeping arrangements, a comfortable fishing boat that traversed rough waters without inducing seasickness, and elegant meals. It was a trip they would never forget. But when the time came for hard decisions, the Blair family would back the man more closely aligned with their political views—Edward Bates.
W
HILE
S
EWARD WAS A NATURAL
in social situations, Governor Chase struggled through the dinners and receptions he organized to further his political ambitions, possessing none of Seward’s social grace. Chase’s greatest resource was his seventeen-year-old daughter, Kate, who flourished in her role as her father’s hostess. “At an age when most girls are shy and lanky,” the
Cincinnati Enquirer
noted, “she stepped forth into the world an accomplished young woman, able to cross swords with the brightest intellects of the nation.”
A child less strong-willed and high-spirited than Kate might have been crushed by the vicissitudes of her father’s demanding love, which he bestowed or denied depending on her performance. In her case, however, the unremitting stress on good habits, fine manners, and hard work paid off. By the time she returned to Columbus, she had acquired an excellent education, a proficiency in several languages, an ability to converse with anyone, and, her biographer observes, “a scientific knowledge of politics that no woman, and few men, have ever surpassed.”
Tall and willowy, Kate was celebrated far and wide as one of the most captivating women of her age. “Her complexion was marvellously delicate,” a contemporary recalled, “her hair a wonderful color like the ripe corn-tassel in full sunlight. Her teeth were perfect. Poets sang then, and still sing, to the turn of her beautiful neck and the regal carriage of her head.” Friends and acquaintances were struck by the extraordinary similarity in looks between the handsome Chase and his stunning daughter. Indeed, when they made an entrance, a hush invariably fell over the room, as if a king and his queen stood in the doorway.
Kate’s return to Columbus prompted her father to settle in a house of his own. Devastated by the loss of three young wives, Chase had never summoned the energy to buy and furnish a home, shuttling instead between rented homes, boardinghouses, and hotel suites. Now, with both Kate and Nettie at home, he bought the stately Gothic mansion on Sixth Street, leaving most of the decorating decisions to Kate. He sent her to Cincinnati to select the wallpaper, carpets, draperies, and sideboards. “I feel I am trusting a good deal to the judgment of a girl of 17,” Chase told her, “but I am confident I may safely trust yours”…“you have capacity and will do very well.”
Assuming the role of Ohio’s first lady, Kate wrote out the invitations and oversaw arrangements for scores of receptions, soirées, and dinners. “I knew all of the great men of my time,” she later recalled. “I was thrown upon my own resources at a very early age.” William Dean Howells, working then as a cub reporter in Columbus, never forgot his invitation to an elegant Thanksgiving party at the governor’s house. It was his first dinner “in society,” the first time he had seen individual plates placed before guests “by a shining black butler, instead of being passed from hand to hand among them.” After dinner, the company was invited to a game of charades, which promised mortification for the shy young Howells. Kate immediately allayed his fears, he gratefully recalled, by “the raillery glancing through the deep lashes of her brown eyes which were very beautiful.” Kate’s dynamic grace and intellect made her the most interesting woman in any gathering, as well as a critical force behind her father’s drive for the presidency.
While Kate projected a mature poise, she was yet a spirited young girl with a rebellious streak. Her craving for excitement and glamour led to a tryst with a wealthy young man who had recently married the daughter of a well-known Ohio journalist. The dashing figure reportedly “began his attentions by little civilities, then mild flirtations,” building familiarity to take Kate for carriage rides and call on her in the Governor’s Mansion. When Chase learned of these encounters, he banished Kate’s admirer from the house. Nonetheless, the young couple continued meeting, signaling each other with handkerchiefs from the window. One day Chase apparently arrived home unexpectedly, to find the “enamored Benedict” in his drawing room. Chase used his horsewhip to put an end to the relationship.
Kate once again settled into her role as her father’s helpmate, working with him side by side as he set his sights on a presidential run in 1860. Like Seward and Lincoln, Chase regarded the
Dred Scott
decision as part of a conspiracy aimed at free institutions, which only a Republican victory could stop. He had offered his services to Scott’s defenders, but in the end had not taken part in the case. His true service to the nation, he believed, could best be served in the White House. “I find that many are beginning to talk about the election of 1860,” he wrote his friend Charles Cleveland in November 1857, “and not a few are again urging my name…. Some imagine that I can combine more strength than any other man.”
W
HILE
S
EWARD AND
C
HASE
eyed the presidency, Lincoln prepared for another bid for the U.S. Senate. As chief architect of the Republican Party in his state, Lincoln had first claim to run against Stephen Douglas in 1858. Recognizing the sacrifice he had made three years earlier to ensure Trumbull’s election, hundreds of party workers stood ready to do everything they could to ensure that this time Lincoln had every chance to realize his dream. In addition to David Davis, Leonard Swett, and Billy Herndon, stalwart friends in 1855, he could count on Norman Judd, whose refusal to abandon Trumbull had contributed mightily to his earlier defeat.
Once again fate threatened to disrupt his plans as events in Kansas took an ominous turn. Although an overwhelming majority of the settlers were opposed to slavery and wanted to join the Union as a free state, a rump group of proslavery forces met in Lecompton, drafted a proslavery constitution, and applied for statehood. The Buchanan administration, hoping to appease Southern mainstays of the Democratic Party, endorsed the Lecompton Constitution, calling on Congress to admit Kansas as a slave state. A new wave of outrage swept the North.
At this juncture, Stephen Douglas stunned the political world by breaking with his fellow Democrats. In an acrimonious session with President Buchanan, he told him he would not support the Lecompton Constitution. The man who had led the Democratic fight for the Nebraska Act was now siding with the Republicans in open opposition to his own administration. “My objection to the Lecompton constitution did not consist in the fact that it made Kansas a slave State,” he later explained. He cared not whether slavery was voted up or down; but the decision “was not the act and deed of the people of Kansas, and did not embody their will.” To Douglas, the clash with the Buchanan administration must have seemed unavoidable. Support for Lecompton would have betrayed his own doctrine of “popular sovereignty,” on which he had staked his political future, and seriously diminished his chances for reelection to the Senate from Illinois.