The Lost Gettysburg Address

by David T. Dixon

  Charles Anderson traveled to Baltimore in June 1852 for the quadrennial national Whig convention. The Democrats had nominated New Hampshire native Franklin Pierce for president only weeks earlier. Incumbent chief executive Millard Fillmore coveted the Whig nomination, but Anderson and most others felt he had little chance to beat Pierce. They nominated General Winfield Scott after Anderson gave a rousing speech supporting his old friend. Just days after the convention concluded, Henry Clay died of tuberculosis. He was the first person to lie in state in the United States Capitol. Pierce then trounced Scott in one of the most lopsided presidential elections in history. The Whig Party was essentially dead, rendered irrelevant by their divisions over slavery and unable to survive the passing of their founder.19

  It was appropriate that Anderson delivered his personal and moving tribute to Clay in Cincinnati on the very day of the election, November 2. This was a eulogy for both the man and his party. It was no coincidence, Anderson suggested, that this great leader was born in the first year of his country’s independence in Hanover County, Virginia, where so many noble patriots like Patrick Henry and Anderson’s own father resided. Like Richard C. Anderson, Clay had made his way to Kentucky early and dedicated his life to the service of his commonwealth and his country. What set Clay apart, according to Anderson, was “an undaunted independence of mind in himself, and a most ardent and philanthropic sympathy with the rights of Liberty in all Mankind.” Clay’s first vote and speech, Anderson was quick to point out, was in favor of Negro emancipation. Just as Anderson had experienced when advocating against Ohio’s Black Laws, Clay had been “howled, by the accustomed outcries, into the seclusion and consequent oblivion of private life.” Neither Clay nor Anderson would remain in political exile long. Clay’s moral objections to slavery were gradually overcome by “reason and understanding,” in Anderson’s words, as the Great Compromiser realized that his dream of general emancipation was both impractical and dangerous to the fragile Union. Anderson called Clay the “model statesman of the model republic.” He was also the model after which Anderson patterned his public life and most cherished principles.20

  Cut adrift from the only political party he had ever supported, Anderson vowed to maintain the principles and legacy of his hero, describing his newfound status as a “fossil Whig.” As the emerging Republican and American parties competed with the Democrats to woo former Whigs to their camp, Anderson retained his independence. He would only support good men from any party whom he felt might help keep the Union intact. This principled stand brought him praise from a select few as well as derision and scorn from the vast majority of politicians. They could not understand how he could avoid party affiliation and stay relevant. Yet Charles Anderson’s name seemed to be constantly on the lips of Ohio’s political operatives. He was still a man of influence, a wild card that might be played in an uncertain game of power where the players and the rules were in a state of perpetual flux.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Political Outcast

  AS THE WHIGS SANK RAPIDLY into the political abyss, Charles Anderson focused on his practice and achieved more success than he had ever enjoyed in his adult life. To display his new-found wealth, he constructed a lavish residence at the southeast corner of Pike and Fifth Streets in Cincinnati, just a few hundred yards from the mansion of Nicholas Longworth, whom many considered the wealthiest man west of New York. Anderson hired accomplished architect John Hamilton, who had designed several public buildings and cemeteries in his native England, to build his dream house. The plan was ambitious. Anderson drew inspiration from his European tour, choosing to design the house in the popular Italian Villa style. The builder took advantage of its picturesque position, perched on the edge of a steep hill, with a commanding view of the city and countryside below. The house impressed visitors, not with scale and opulence, but rather with its tasteful artistic sensibilities, creative use of a difficult building site, and advanced technology.

  Approaching the residence from the street, two iron statues of lions copied from those at St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome greeted Anderson’s guests at the entrance gate. After ascending ten stone steps and proceeding under a double-arched stone portico, visitors entered a modest hall and continued on to an elegant suite of three rooms with fourteen-foot ceilings. The adjoining parlors and dining room were connected by large pocket doors that when opened created a grand expanse nearly seventy feet wide. The parlor fronting Pike Street had a unique feature. Hamilton inserted a huge window directly over the fireplace, accomplished by bending twin flues around a wall opening and rejoining them above the roof line into one central chimney stack. This innovation brought copious daylight to the space. At night, Anderson closed the window via a shutter mechanism concealed in the wainscot. A large mirror graced the front of the closed shutter, mimicking the one over the dining room fireplace at the opposite end of the suite. The twin mirrors reflected the candlelight from custom-made chandeliers. There was nothing quite like it in the entire city.

  The private spaces in the house were no less dramatic. From the hall or central parlor, Anderson and his special guests retired to the spacious library. This room, an octagonal retreat accessed at entrance level, was a full three stories above the ground due to the steep rear elevation. Kitchen and servants’ quarters were cleverly constructed below in the rear of the house, creating opportunities for light and views unheard of in a basement service wing. Climbing the main staircase past the bedrooms on the second level, one continued upward in a Romanesque stair tower, finally emerging into a beautiful belvedere of open arches. Yellow sandstone tastefully accented architectural elements across the red brick exterior of the house. The highlight of any tour of the Anderson residence was the flat roof deck off the belvedere, which boasted unparalleled views of the Cincinnati environs that delighted everyone who visited.1

  By the time his new house was completed in 1854, Anderson appeared to have it all. He was surrounded by like-minded people of education and taste. His promising eighteen-year-old son, Allen Latham, was preparing to enter West Point. Daughters Kitty and Belle were busy being instructed in French, music, and the domestic arts. Anderson’s services as a celebrated orator were always in great demand. He rarely resisted an invitation to address friends and neighbors on a wide range of topics. He and his law partner, Rufus King, once spent an entire afternoon discussing which works of art they should purchase. While Anderson’s prosperity and leisure time increased, however, the nation drifted closer to disaster.2

  One of the political deals that had held the nation together, the Missouri Compromise of 1820, was essentially repealed in 1854 with the passage of the Kansas-Nebraska Act. Anderson imagined Clay rolling over in his grave after Stephen A. Douglas of Illinois was successful in selling his doctrine of popular sovereignty in the territories to the U.S. Congress and to President Franklin Pierce. The act precipitated a civil war in Kansas, a territory that had been free of slaves, as slave owners rushed in to tip the political balance in their favor. Free Soil men and other Northerners felt betrayed, leading to the birth of the Republican Party on an antislavery platform. While these alignments were taking shape, a gubernatorial election loomed in Ohio in the fall of 1855. Hard-core Union men like Anderson faced a difficult choice between two candidates they could not abide.

  Incumbent governor William Medill, a Democrat, and Free Soil/Republican “Fusion” candidate Salmon P. Chase had only one thing in common, according to Anderson and other prominent ex-Whigs such as Judge William Johnston. Their platforms were sectional and threatened to accelerate the momentum toward disunion. Supporting the Democrat was unthinkable. Chase was regarded by his opponents as a radical abolitionist. What could Anderson and his friends do to avoid either undesirable result? Their answer was to trot out seventy-one-year-old federalist ex-governor Allen Trimble and run him under the banner of the American or Know-Nothing Party. This was a tainted compromise, as Anderson was a bitter opponent of this party and their brand of racist nativi
sm. The campaign turned nasty. Judge Johnston was accused of secretly supporting the Democrats in a guerilla effort to defame and defeat Chase. Chase won the governor’s race comfortably. Trimble finished a distant third with only 8 percent of the vote. The press had a field day at the expense of Johnston and Anderson, claiming that their political “firm” had been forced into a “hopelessly insolvent state of liquidation.”3

  Although Anderson’s friends and critics had grown accustomed to his stubborn independence in the political arena, many were shocked when he came out in support of James Buchanan for president in 1856. “Old Buck” was not only a Democrat but also the man whom many felt had impugned Henry Clay’s character. Buchanan had accused Clay of constructing a corrupt bargain to support John Quincy Adams for president in 1824, in exchange for a promise of the office of secretary of state. The charge had since proven false, but the former animus between Anderson’s chosen candidate and his departed hero survived in the hearts of many ex-Whigs. The press continued to harass Anderson for his latest and most unexpected alliance. The Dayton Gazette compared Anderson to a boa constrictor, somehow swallowing Buchanan after the candidate himself was compelled to stomach Pierce, Douglas, and the Nebraska Bill. “What politician ever,” the Gazette teased, so completely demonstrated “straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel?”4

  In his speeches and private letters, Anderson was clear that, despite his unusual endorsement, he was no Democrat. In fact, he had sworn off all parties for the rest of his life. Electing Buchanan was simply the best chance that the nation had to avoid a disastrous breakup and a possible civil war. Anderson’s logic was simple. A victory by the Republican candidate John Fremont would push the country to the brink of disunion. American Party candidate Millard Fillmore had no chance to win in the North, as his party took no position on slavery and had alienated recent immigrant voters. This was “no crisis in which to exercise our suffrage as a sort of party sentimentalism,” Anderson wrote his friend and former Whig Orlando Brown. “I must vote and vote efficiently,” Anderson declared, “directly against disunion and everything standing that way.”

  Soon after Buchanan won, Anderson received a visit from Virginia governor Henry A. Wise. Wise assured Anderson that he expected a “national and more conservative” administration from the new president than Republicans and others feared. “I may be perversely wrong in all these hopes and opinions,” Anderson wrote to Brown in late November 1856, “but I am as yet quite happy with any delusion if it be delusion. I really believe the Union is now safe.” Anderson would soon realize that he had been thinking more with his heart than his head. He would later change his opinion and regard the defeat of Fremont as a calamity for his beloved country.5

  CHAPTER SIX

  Texas Fever

  CHARLES ANDERSON WAS RESTLESS. The law provided a comfortable lifestyle, but he had always despised it. His asthma had worsened to the point where he was confined to his bed for weeks at a time. When he was finally forced to abandon his profession, Anderson felt both anxious and relieved. He needed to restore his health, find a new career, and support his young family. Cincinnati had experienced devastating epidemics of cholera, tuberculosis, and other diseases typical of emerging industrial cities. It was no place for a person in his condition. He yearned for a diplomatic post. He had alienated many former allies in his bolt to the Buchanan camp in 1856, and he expected that patronage was due him for this sacrifice. As his brother Larz and other influential friends moved behind the scenes, Charles dreamed of an ambassadorship in Berlin or Naples, where he could indulge his love of the arts and become immersed in European culture.

  At first blush, Anderson seemed an ideal candidate for a foreign post. He was well-traveled, highly educated, and particularly attuned to the intricacies of American policy. His superior intellect and magnetic personality made him a worthy candidate to develop intimate relationships with world leaders. He had glaring liabilities, however, that frustrated these ambitions time and again over the course of his life. The plum appointments that Anderson craved were typically bestowed on party loyalists or personal friends. By the 1850s he had sworn off party politics and was now an avowed independent. Among the many aspirants to political patronage jobs were lifelong Democrats who had proven their party allegiance over the course of many campaigns. An independent turn of mind could be viewed as dangerous in key diplomatic posts. As Anderson had demonstrated in the Ohio senate, he refused to toe the party line when those platforms clashed with his own conscience. He never fully understood the art of political compromise. Thus national party leaders often liked and even admired him, but few really trusted him to be an unflinching servant to administration policies.1

  The traditional approach to securing such appointments was to drop hints to influential friends, then stand by for the call from the president or one of his cabinet members. Campaigning for a post was considered undignified. After just a few months of waiting, Anderson surprised his close friends by traveling to Washington City in May 1857 to plead his case. Rufus King felt sorry for Anderson’s “vain and hopeless effort” to secure a foreign mission. Despite the encouragement of Anderson’s many friends, King concluded that his law partner had “neither game nor any intimation of Mr. Buchanan’s will.” After nearly a month in the capital, Anderson learned that Governor Joseph A. Wright, a pro-Union Democrat from Indiana, was the president’s choice for Berlin. Subsequent posts to Vienna and Naples landed in the laps of two natives of Buchanan’s home state of Pennsylvania. Anderson returned home, discouraged.2

  Frequent illnesses gave Anderson ample time for his two favorite pastimes: reading and learning. He devoured hundreds of books each year, adding copious notes in the margins for future reference. A man he particularly admired for his artistic sensibilities published a travelogue of sorts in 1857 that changed Anderson’s life in unimaginable ways. Before he became America’s father of landscape architecture, Frederick Law Olmsted made a name for himself as a journalist. His interest in the U.S. slave economy led him to a commission by the New York Daily Times to tour the Southern states for six years, beginning in 1852. Olmsted and Anderson shared a passion for adventure. A Journey through Texas was one of a series of works recounting Olmsted’s travels in the American South. They were instant bestsellers, and this particular edition held Anderson spellbound.

  Olmsted described a frontier land, wild and exotic as any Anderson had visited on his European tour, but with the added promise of economic opportunity. As Anderson later recalled, this was the book that “decided [his] fates.”3 Olmsted paid particular attention to the natural landscape in his works. Anderson was easily seduced by reports of fine, sweet mesquite grasses covering river bottomlands in abundance. Olmsted described the San Antonio River as “of a rich blue and pure as crystal.” Its spring was in a wooded glen north of town and “may be classed as of the first water among the gems of the natural world”; the river is of such incredible beauty, he wrote, that “[you] cannot believe your eyes, and almost shrink from sudden metamorphosis by invaded nymphdom.”4

  By 1858, Anderson had contracted yet another strong affliction, which his sister-in-law Catherine Longworth described as “Texas fever.” The fever intensified, soon becoming an obsession. Anderson concocted a plan to set up the first blooded stock operation in the fledgling state. Despite his failure as an aspiring farmer twenty years previous, Anderson was determined to once again seek his fortune in agrarian pursuits. It was a bad decision. The Anderson brothers shared a life-long passion for horses. Marshall was the family expert and managed his brother’s livestock interests in Ohio while Charles was busy with law and politics. If his youngest brother was to follow through with this latest endeavor, Marshall would make sure he had the best stock available. Charles pressed forward with his latest scheme, despite the contrary advice of friends and family. They knew that once he had fixed his mind on a course, any attempt to dissuade him would prove fruitless. That summer, Charles set off on his own Texas adventure to scou
t a location for his future ranch. What he found delighted him.5

  The neighborhood that had been the subject of Olmsted’s flowery gushes lay four miles north of town on an eminence. To its immediate north were the verdant Worth Springs, where the San Antonio River literally burst forth from the earth and meandered south, past whitewashed buildings of the burgeoning town and the crumbling remains of old Spanish missions. Anderson returned from this scouting trip excited and energized and immediately made plans for the move. Leaving his financial affairs in the capable hands of Rufus King, Anderson set out again for the Lone Star State on January 8, 1859. Eliza and their daughters followed that fall. If any of them expected to replicate some of the finer aspects of their life in Cincinnati, they were in for a shocking surprise.6

  San Antonio was just beginning to transform itself from what one visitor in 1845 had described as a “dirty mud hole” into a modern town. From a mere thirty-five hundred inhabitants in 1850, the population had tripled just six years later. It was a place of startling contrasts. On the one hand, investment capital from the industrial North and unprecedented profits from the cotton boom in the South were pouring into the town. German immigrant William Menger, who had made a small fortune operating a stable and brewery in the center of San Antonio, opened his namesake hotel that year. It soon received worldwide acclaim for its lodgings, said to be the best in the West. Neat one-story stone houses built by German immigrants were interspersed with new American dwellings of three stories with fancy brick facades, balconies, and picket fences. On the other hand, the city’s bleaker sections looked quite different. Older Mexican dwellings were simple huts made of stakes and mud, topped by river grass, or low adobe structures without windows. Olmsted and other observers remarked that San Antonio, with the exception of New Orleans, was the most complex amalgamation of race and language of any city in the nation.