Lincoln spoke the next night at the same place before an audience even more enthusiastic than the one that had listened to Douglas. Lincoln’s speech was by no means one of his best, but in his reply to Douglas’s stand on racial inferiority he came out with a declaration that is as valid today as when he spoke the words more than three-quarters of a century ago:
Now I ask you, in all soberness, if all these things, if indulged in, if ratified, if confirmed and indorsed, if taught to our children, and repeated to them, do not tend to rub out the sentiment of liberty in the country, and to transform this government into a government of some other form? Those arguments that are made, that the inferior race are to be treated with as much allowance as they are capable of enjoying; that as much is to be done for them as their condition will allow—what are these arguments? They are the arguments that kings have made for enslaving the people in all ages of the world. You will find that all the arguments in favor of kingcraft were of this class; they always bestrode the necks of the people—not that they wanted to do it, but because the people were better off for being ridden. That is their argument, and this argument of the judge is the same old serpent that says, “You work and I eat, you toil and I will enjoy the fruits of it.” Turn in whatever way you will—whether it come from the mouth of a king, as an excuse for enslaving the people of his country, or from the mouth of men of one race as a reason for enslaving the men of another race, it is all the same old serpent, and I hold if that course of argumentation that is made for the purpose of convincing the public mind that we should not care about this should be granted, it does not stop with the Negro. I should like to know—taking this old Declaration of Independence, which declares that all men are equal upon principle, and making exceptions to it—where will it stop? If one man says it does not mean a Negro, why not another say it does not mean some other man?
He was to use this statement only a few months later, during his last debate with Douglas at Alton, Illinois. By that time the words had undergone a process of transmutation in the creative furnace of Lincoln’s mind. The words had been purified of dross, put together with artistry into a brief statement that has the emotional appeal of great literature. It is interesting to note the transformation:
That is the real issue. That is the issue that will continue in this country when these poor tongues of Judge Douglas and myself shall be silent. It is the eternal struggle between these two principles—right and wrong—throughout the world. They are the two principles that have stood face to face from the beginning of time; and will ever continue to struggle. The one is the common right of humanity, and the other the divine right of kings. It is the same principle in whatever shape it develops itself. It is the same spirit that says, “You toil and work and earn bread, and I’ll eat it.” No matter in what shape it comes, whether from the mouth of a king who seeks to bestride the people of his own nation and live by the fruit of their labor, or from one race of men as an apology for enslaving another race, it is the same tyrannical principle.
Lincoln had been a long time maturing; his mind worked slowly in all things, turning over and digesting the material on which it worked, but never ceasing to wrestle with the problem that absorbed him. He grew slowly but he never stopped growing. His power over words became greater each day. His speeches from this time on show not only growth in ideational content but growth in phraseology, in word power, style. The Lincoln of the Second Inaugural and the Gettysburg Address was now in the throes of birth.
The political rival who was to make Lincoln great, not through friendship but through enmity, went on from Chicago to speak at Bloomington, and then at Springfield. Lincoln followed him, speaking after Douglas in Springfield, on July 17, 1858, where he renewed his charges of conspiracy, and made his first reference to himself in regard to the Presidency—although in a purely negative and self-deprecatory way. After pointing out that the Democrats benefited by having Douglas as their candidate because he was a person of great renown who might some day very well become President and hand out political patronage, he said: “Nobody has ever expected me to be President. In my poor, lean, lank face nobody has ever seen that any cabbages were sprouting out. These are disadvantages … that the Republicans labor under.”
THE LINCOLN-DOUGLAS DEBATES
The campaign rapidly grew more bitterly partisan. The old Mexican War charges against Lincoln were hauled out, and he was again accused of having voted to prevent the army from getting supplies; the “Spot” resolutions he had made in Congress ten years previously were used to ridicule him; and the Democratic press in Illinois did its best to play Lincoln down and Douglas up, while the Republican press, of course, waged an equally vitriolic counter-attack. The Republicans were dissatisfied with the way their candidate had been trailing Douglas, speaking only after he had spoken. They urged that a joint debate be held so the candidates could both have a chance to address the same crowd. Lincoln sent a letter of challenge to Douglas, and Douglas was forced into a position where he had to accept, although he knew perfectly well that he had nothing to win and everything to lose by such an encounter. The debates would make Lincoln well known, whereas Douglas was already so famous that he needed no additional publicity; if Lincoln were to win it would be a great victory for him, but if Douglas won he would simply be eliminating a competitor who was of slight importance. Douglas foresaw and feared the results of such a campaign, and he was quite correct in his forecast—the debates made Lincoln, and in making him they broke Douglas, even though he won the Senatorial race which served as an excuse for holding the debates. Lincoln was out for bigger game. He saw the coming split in the Democratic party, astutely realized that it would give him his chance, and—if he could in some way obtain the Republican nomination in 1860—he would have a heaven-sent opportunity to become President of the United States.
Much against his better judgment Douglas accepted Lincoln’s challenge. He was given the privilege of setting the time and place for the seven joint debates that were to be held. These were decided upon by Douglas as follows: Ottawa, August 21; Freeport, August 27; Jonesboro, September 15; Charleston, September 18; Galesburg, October 7; Quincy, October 13; and Alton, October 15.
All seven places were small towns; the largest of them, Quincy, had a population of not much more than 10,000. All the towns were relatively new. Most of them had been settled within the memory of living men. And their citizens were American to the core, American with the peculiar native passion for independence and individuality that distinguished the small-town dweller in the first half of the nineteenth century. Freeport was in the northern part of the state, north of Chicago; Jonesboro was in the extreme south, down in “Egypt,” where the people were Southern by ancestry and tradition. But north or south, all these towns were alike in one thing—their passionate interest in politics. The debates were not simply one-day shows—they were important events to be talked about before they happened and then discussed long afterward, with endless elaboration of the points made by the speakers, and with great argument as to whether the “Tall Sucker” or the “Little Giant” was the better man.
Douglas traveled in a private railroad car, accompanied by friends and advisers as well as by the beautiful Mrs. Douglas who did yeomanlike service in winning over the ladies of each town to her husband’s cause. Women could not vote, but they were an important influence in politics, and Douglas was clever enough not to ignore them. Mrs. Lincoln stayed at home; she heard her husband speak only once—at the final debate at Alton.
Douglas’s train carried a flatcar on which a brass cannon was mounted. The cannon was fired at every stop; brass bands played; people cheered; influential citizens came to greet the celebrated Senator at the railroad station. Lincoln traveled modestly as an ordinary passenger on the regular trains. In towns where the Republicans were strong he was received with as much enthusiasm and fanfare as Douglas. Certainly he never lacked audience support. Even in the extreme south of the state there were some men who ca
me to cheer for Lincoln, even though this expression of approval met with their neighbors’ scorn.
Lincoln’s stage presence on the speaker’s platform has been recorded for us by Herndon who caught his partner to the life in his description of Lincoln during the debates:
When standing erect he was six feet four inches high. He was lean in flesh and ungainly in figure. Aside from the sad, pained look due to habitual melancholy, his face had no characteristic or fixed expression. He was thin through the chest, and hence slightly stoop-shouldered. When he arose … his body inclined forward to a slight degree. At first he was very awkward, and it seemed a real labor to adjust himself to his surroundings. He struggled for a time under a feeling of apparent diffidence and sensitiveness, and these only added to his awkwardness.… When he began speaking, his voice was shrill, piping, and unpleasant. His manner, his attitude, his dark, yellow face, wrinkled and dry, his oddity of pose, his diffident movements—everything seemed to be against him, but only for a short time. After having arisen, he generally placed his hands behind him, the back of his left hand in the palm of his right, the thumb and fingers of his right hand clasped around the left arm at the wrist. For a few moments he displayed the combination of awkwardness, sensitiveness, and diffidence. As he proceeded he became somewhat animated, and to keep in harmony with his growing warmth his hands relaxed their grasp and fell to his side. Presently he clasped them in front of him, interlocking his fingers, one thumb meanwhile chasing another. His speech now requiring more emphatic utterance, his fingers unlocked and his hands fell apart. His left arm was thrown behind, the back of his hand resting against his body, his right hand seeking his side. By this time he had gained sufficient composure, and his real speech began. He did not gesticulate as much with his hands as with his head. He used the latter frequently, throwing it with vim this way and that. This movement was a significant one when he sought to enforce his statement. It sometimes came with a quick jerk, as if throwing off electric sparks into combustible material. He never sawed the air nor rent space into tatters and rags as some orators do. He never acted for stage effect. He was cool, considerate, reflective—in time self-possessed and self-reliant. His style was clear, terse, and compact. In argument he was logical, demonstrative, and fair.
He was careless of his dress, and his clothes, instead of fitting neatly as did the garments of Douglas on the latter’s well-rounded form, hung loosely on his giant frame. As he moved along in his speech he became freer and less uneasy in his movements; to that extent he was graceful. He had a perfect naturalness, a strong individuality; and to that extent he was dignified. He despised glitter, show, set forms, and shams. He spoke with effectiveness and to move the judgment as well as the emotions of men. There was a world of meaning and emphasis in the long, bony finger of his right hand as he dotted the ideas on the minds of his hearers. Sometimes, to express joy or pleasure, he would raise both hands at an angle of about fifty degrees, the palms upward, as if desirous of embracing the spirit of that which he loved. If the sentiment was one of detestation—denunciation of slavery, for example—both arms, thrown upward and fists clenched, swept through the air, and he expressed an execration that was truly sublime. This was one of his most effective gestures, and signified most vividly a fixed determination to drag down the object of his hatred and trample it in the dust.
He always stood squarely on his feet, toe even with toe; that is, he never put one foot before the other. He neither touched nor leaned on anything for support. He made but few changes in his positions and attitudes. He never walked backward and forward on the platform. To ease his arms he frequently caught hold, with his left hand, of the lapel of his coat, keeping his thumb upright and leaving his right hand free to gesticulate.…
As he proceeded with his speech the exercise of his vocal organs altered somewhat the tone of his voice. It lost in a measure its former acute and shrilling pitch, and mellowed into a more harmonious and pleasant sound. His form expanded, and, notwithstanding the sunken breast, he rose up a splendid and imposing figure.… His little gray eyes flashed in a face aglow with the fire of his profound thoughts; and his uneasy movements and diffident manner sunk themselves beneath the wave of righteous indignation that came sweeping over him. Such was Lincoln the orator.
The first debate took place at Ottawa on August 21; the other six followed at intervals until mid-October. Summer slowly turned into autumn; leaves drifted down from the oaks and walnuts of the prairie groves; crowds that had come in shirt-sleeves came in coats and shawls. History was being made in Illinois and the crowds sensed dimly what was happening. They saw Abraham Lincoln and they saw Stephen A. Douglas. Then they went home convinced that they had seen at least one great man.
The actual content of the debates is disappointing when first read in the full stenographic reports that were taken of every word spoken. There are many arid passages, and worst of all, both speakers repeat themselves again and again. It may almost be said that each speaker had one standard argument for which the other had one standard reply.10
The high point in strategy was achieved by Lincoln during the second debate at Freeport. Douglas had presented a set of questions for Lincoln to answer; Lincoln prepared a set for Douglas, the second one of which was:
Can the people of a United States territory, in any lawful way, against the wish of any citizen of the United States, exclude slavery from its limits prior to the formation of a state constitution?
This was, of course, a very ticklish question for Douglas. If he answered in one way, he would lose the support of his own Illinois constituents and the race for the Senatorship; if he answered in another way he was sure to lose the support of the South.
Lincoln had already correctly forecast what Douglas’s answer would be. In a letter to a friend, Henry Asbury, dated July 31, he had said:
The points you propose to press upon Douglas he will be very hard to get up to, but I think you labor under a mistake when you say no one cares how he answers. This implies that it is equal with him whether he is injured here or at the South. That is a mistake. He cares nothing for the South; he knows he is already dead there. He only leans Southward more to keep the Buchanan party from growing in Illinois. You shall have hard work to get him directly to the point whether a territorial legislature has or has not the power to exclude slavery. But if you succeed in bringing him to it—though he will be compelled to say it possesses no such power—he will instantly take ground that slavery cannot actually exist in the territories unless the people desire it, and so give it protection by territorial legislation. If this offends the South, he will let it offend them, as at all events he means to hold on to his chances in Illinois.
Douglas made the inevitable answer; his split with the Buchanan administration was widened still farther; he won the Illinois election and lost the Presidency in 1860, when Southerners flocked to his rival Breckinridge.
On October 15, the great debates came to a close at Alton, where the two candidates spoke in the public square overlooking the Mississippi River. Douglas had the final word, speaking in rejoinder to Lincoln, and when he had finished making an appeal to the voters to stand by old traditions, to avoid agitators and to let everything remain as it had always been, the campaign was over. Lincoln returned to Springfield, poor in pocket, and forced to concentrate his energy on his law practice which he had neglected for nearly six months. Everybody waited for the election that was to be held on November 2.
Election day was cold and rainy; Lincoln’s heart sank as the returns came in. The Republicans gained in power and prestige, but the Democrats still held control in both Houses of the State Legislature, making Douglas’s election practically certain.
Lincoln was disappointed. He had been willing to jeopardize his chance of winning when he had made Douglas commit himself at Freeport, but he still hoped that he might somehow win the Senatorship. Had he obtained it, it would have advanced his strategic position; it was an important post—one in which he mig
ht have made a name for himself during the two years before the 1860 Presidential election would be held. He was disappointed but determined not to give up the struggle. Two weeks later he wrote a revealing letter to his friend, Henry Asbury:
The fight must go on. The cause of civil liberty must not be surrendered at the end of one or even one hundred defeats, Douglas had the ingenuity to be supported in the late contest both as the best means to break down and to uphold the slave interest. No ingenuity can keep these antagonistic elements in harmony long. Another explosion will soon come.
The explosion predicted by Lincoln was purely a political one. A more important and devastating one had been forecast by another great political leader, William H. Seward. Speaking at Rochester, New York, on October 25, ten days after the end of the Lincoln-Douglas debates, Seward gave the coming struggle for power a name that was to stick to it. After drawing a comparison between the systems of free labor and slave labor, he said that their mutual antagonism was not “accidental, unnecessary, the work of interested or fanatical agitators and therefore ephemeral.… It is an irrepressible conflict between opposing and enduring forces.…”
The man who was to be the Northern President during this irrepressible conflict again had to return to his old life, riding the circuit, pleading law cases in country courts and staying at nights in small-town inns and taverns where he was still one of the boys. The next year—1859—was not one of outstanding achievement for him although he was called upon to speak several times at places outside the state.11 He also made several unsuccessful attempts at non-political lecturing, but mostly he just waited with that vast patience that was his. He studied the situation as it developed, and he studied it until he was able to analyze its hidden meanings and so deduce its probable tendency and drift.
The Life and Writings of Abraham Lincoln Page 10