Close of the War—Distrust of the Administration—Kindlier Feelings after Mr. Beecher’s Return from England—Growing Confidence—Intimacy with Secretary Stanton—Fort Sumter—Lee’s Surrender—Lincoln’s Death.

On his return home from England, Mr. Beecher found that there was a marked change in the feelings of the Administration towards him. It was the popular verdict, in which Washington concurred, that the series of speeches just delivered, in conjunction with the successes of our armies in the field, had switched the English government off from the track leading to intervention and probably war, and had started it in the direction of friendliness and peace. Before that time he had succeeded in creating in the minds of the President and his cabinet a feeling which, if not hostile, was at least not friendly. With many things that had occurred or failed to occur during 1861-2 and early in 1863 he had felt great impatience. He had had no sympathy with the feeling, that prevailed so generally during the first few months of the war, that it would be an affair of but a few months, that 75,000 men would be more than enough to end the rebellion. He felt that the proper policy was for the government to crush the rebellion by the power of an enormous army, and that it was but poor economy to send forward troops by driblets. Nor did he at all believe in the distinction that existed between the United States regulars and the State troops. He thought that they ought to be all United States troops. What he felt he was not slow to say. On June 10, 1861, he wrote to the President, urging the government to accept a regiment raised by Colonel Stockton:

“Ought not such a man as the one whom I send to you, Colonel T. B. W. Stockton, of Michigan, a West Point graduate, a colonel in the Mexican war, to have a chance in this great war, with a thousand men at his back?

“Do we not need men that have seen fire?

“I am exceedingly desirous, anxious even, that a large demonstration of power should be made, as a matter of economy, of humanity, and of expedition.

“Are we not in danger of being injured by a Northern misconstruction of State rights, which shall prevent government from taking troops where it pleases, without being obliged to come to the people through the machinery of State governments?

”It is the people’s war. The people must be allowed to have a fair chance for the exertion of their will.”

And later, when political expediency was permitted to play so prominent a part in the selection and action of our generals, his indignation was intense and outspoken. While he felt great admiration for President Lincoln and great confidence in him, still he felt that he was making serious mistakes. As we have seen, Mr. Beecher was then the editor-in-chief of the New York Independent, and through its editorials he sought to rouse both the President and public sentiment. Speaking of this time, he says:

“In 1862 the great delay, the want of any success, the masterly inactivity of our leading generals, roused my indignation, and I wrote a series of editorials addressed to the President” [to which we have referred and from which we have largely quoted in a previous chapter], “and as near as I can recollect they were in the nature of a mowing-machine—they cut at every revolution—and I was told one day that the President had received them and read them through with very serious countenance, and that his only criticism was: ‘Is thy servant a dog?’ They bore down on him very hard.”

Not unnaturally, neither the President nor his cabinet felt especially pleased at this. They looked upon it as a hostile attack, and did not regard him with any over-friendly feeling.

But in November, 1863, we find all this changed. The Administration now could see in past criticism, not personal hostility, but an anxious desire, through love of country, to prevent mistakes and secure the best course of action. A far more kindly and confidential relation was established, which continued through that Administration. When, in 1864, there was so much talk about compromise, Mr. Beecher went direct to the President and had a confidential talk with him, which he describes in a brief sketch (of Lincoln):

“There was some talk early in 1864 of a sort of compromise with the South. Blair had told the President that he was satisfied, if he could be put in communication with some of the leading men of the South in some way or other, that some benefit would accrue. Lincoln had sent a delegation to meet Alexander Stephens, and that was all the North knew. We were all very much excited over that. The war lasted so long that I was afraid Lincoln would be so anxious for peace, and I was afraid he would accept something that would be of advantage to the South, so I went to Washington and called upon him. We were alone in his receiving-room. His hair was ‘every way for Sunday.’ It looked as though it was an abandoned stubble-field. He had on slippers, and his vest was what was called ‘going free.’ He looked wearied, and, when he sat down in a chair, looked as though every limb wanted to drop off his body. And I said to him: ‘Mr. Lincoln, I come to you to know whether the public interest will permit you to explain to me what this Southern commission means?’ Well, he listened very patiently, and looked up to the ceiling for a few moments, and said: ‘Well, I am almost of a mind to show you all the documents.’

“‘Well, Mr. Lincoln, I should like to see them if it is proper.’ He went to his little secretary, and came out and handed me a little card as long as my finger and an inch wide, and on that was written—

“‘There,’ he said, ‘is all there is of it. Now, Blair thinks something can be done, but I don’t, but I have no objection to have him try his hand. He has no authority whatever, but to go and see what he can do.’

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘you have lifted a great burden off my mind.’”

During the last year of the President’s life they became very intimate, and the respect and admiration which Mr. Beecher shared, in common with the general feeling of the North, deepened into a strong personal love. In one of his Friday night prayer-meetings, shortly after Mr. Lincoln’s death, he refers to their intimacy:

“I am sure no one more than I, can feel the personal affliction, outside of those that were immediately associated with President Lincoln. I need not say to you how my public relations have brought me, not only to the most constant study of his course and of his character, but into some personal relations with him that have given me more knowledge of him than otherwise I should have had. I was reading to-night, before I came here, the last letter that I received from him. It had reference to an interview which I had had with him on a particular subject. It is a precious letter to me. During the time that I was with him (it was between eleven and twelve o’clock at night, in Washington) his great kindness, his great simplicity, and his great frankness opened him to me, and I saw him more fully than ever before, as very wise, as shrewd as well as wise, as far-reaching and sagacious as well as shrewd, and, above all, as faithful to the great interests that were committed to him. That interview has come up to me over and over and over again. It seemed as though it was but yesterday. And when the tidings that he was gone came to me, I know not how I shall describe the sense that I had of a strange personal loss.”

During this period Mr. Beecher formed the acquaintance of Stanton, which speedily ripened into a very strong friendship, largely through an impulsive act of sympathy by Mr. Beecher:

“I came up Wall Street one day and met a friend, who said: ‘I have just come back from Washington. Stanton is breaking down; he won’t hold out much longer.’

“Well, it just struck me all into a heap. I walked into an office in Wall Street and said, ‘Will you allow me pen and ink?’ and wrote to him just what I had heard—that he was sick and broken down and desponding. I wrote that he need not despond, that the country was saved, and, if he did not do another thing, he had done enough. I sent the letter, and in the course of a few days I got back a letter, and if it had been a woman writing in answer to a proposal it could not have been more tender. And when I went to Washington he treated me with great tenderness, as if I had been his son.”

From this letter of Secretary Stanton, which is before us, we quote:

“How deeply your kind note has affected me is beyond my power to tell.... The approbation, confidence, and sympathy of any man was never more highly prized than yours is by me. Your friendly words are a cordial that strengthens me, and your kind sympathy will serve to dispel the gloom and despondency that, as you rightly judged, does sometimes, in moments of physical weariness, gather upon my brain and press heavily upon my heart. Let me tell you that often and often, in dark hours, you have come before me, and I have longed to hear your voice, feeling that above all other men you could cheer, strengthen, guide, and uphold me in this great battle, where, by God’s Providence, it has fallen upon me to hold a post and perform a duty beyond my own strength. But, being a stranger, I had no right to claim your confidence or ask for help, and so have been forced to struggle on patiently as I might from day to day, supported only by fervent faith in our sacred cause, and the consciousness that prayers were being offered up by good people for aid. Now, my dear sir, your voice has reached me, and your hand is stretched forth as to a friend, and henceforth I shall look to you and lean upon you with a sure and abiding trust. Already my heart feels renewed strength and is inspired with fresh hope. There are some points involved in, or developed by, this present contest, on which I wish to commune with you before long.”

Early in 1865, and shortly after the surrender of Charleston, in reply to a letter received from Mr. Beecher making some suggestions, the Secretary wrote:

“It will not be in my power to go to Charleston just now, but I would be glad to send you, and as many school-teachers as will go.... Your idea of raising the flag over a colored school and making our banner the banner of civilization is indeed a noble one, and heartily my feelings respond to the suggestion. Soon after the 4th of March I may be able to go to South Carolina and do what may be done in that direction.... We received this morning the news of the capture of Wilmington yesterday. Surely the end cannot be afar off. The battle of physical force is nearly won, and now we must fight for civilization, including therein legal protection to the rights of all, and universal education. What of strength, heart, and hope is left to me I am willing to spend with you in that cause. Please let me know if you will go to Charleston without waiting for me. The sooner you go the better.”

Shortly after this it was decided to celebrate the anniversary of the fall of Fort Sumter (April 14) by an imposing military and naval demonstration, and by raising again the old flag over its parapet, and the project of sending to Charleston a delegation headed by Mr. Beecher was abandoned.

As soon as the general plan of the Fort Sumter celebration had been decided upon, the President invited Mr. Beecher to be present and deliver the address.

On March 27, 1865, the following general order was issued:

The steamer Arago was sent by the government to New York to transport the invited guests to Charleston. As soon as the formal invitations to the guests of the government had been issued and accepted, Secretary Stanton telegraphed Mr. Beecher:

During this spring the Secretary was in constant telegraphic communication with Mr. Beecher, keeping him informed of each victory or successful move of our army as it occurred.

This led to a thrilling incident in Plymouth Church. During the month of March of this year it became very plain that the war was surely drawing to a close. Lee, hemmed in by Grant, Sherman, and Sheridan, obviously could not hold out very much longer.

The whole country watched and waited with almost breathless interest as slowly but surely the end drew on, the intensity of feeling growing stronger as the end seemed nearer. It was in this condition of the public mind, and on Sunday, April 2, that, just after Mr. Beecher had finished his sermon and had given out a hymn, a telegram was handed up to him on the platform.

Catching the feeling in the air that something of importance had happened, every eye was turned to the platform and a silence like death fell upon the three thousand gathered there. Eagerly the telegram was opened, and as the flash of joy lit up Mr. Beecher’s face a thrill ran through the congregation, instantly hushed as he said:

“The congregation will turn to ‘America’ while I read the following telegram:

As he ceased speaking the great throng rose and, as one man, with streaming eyes joined in the triumphant anthem,

The organist drew the trumpet stops, and turned the full power of the great organ into the hymn, but it was drowned by the voices raised in solemn thanksgiving. Not a voice was silent, not an eye was dry. As the last notes of the hymn died out many a strong man dropped into his seat and sobbed with thankfulness. The beginning of the end had come.

On the 8th of April the Arago sailed from New York for Charleston. The day after she sailed came the surrender of Lee’s army.

Of course no word of the news was received aboard the Arago until she arrived off Charleston Harbor.

“It was when I was tossing upon the sea,” said Mr. Beecher, “off the harbor of Charleston, that we were spoken, and the tidings were communicated to us from another ship, ‘Lee has surrendered!’ And the wild outcry, the strange caprices and exultations of that moment, they never will forget who were present. We were far off from the scene of war; we saw no signs nor tokens; it was as if the heaven had imparted it to us; but oh! what gladness, what ecstasy there was in that news no man can know but those who have suffered as we had suffered.”

Of his speech at the raising of the flag we can only quote a few brief extracts:

“On this solemn and joyful day we again lift to the breeze our fathers’ flag, now again the banner of the United States, with the fervent prayer that God will crown it with honor, protect it from treason, and send it down to our children with all the blessings of civilization, liberty, and religion. Terrible in battle, may it be beneficent in peace! Happily no bird or beast of prey has been inscribed upon it. The stars that redeem the night from darkness, and the beams of red light that beautify the morning, have been united upon its folds. As long as the sun or the stars endure may it wave over a nation neither enslaved, nor enslaving. Once, and but once, has treason dishonored it. In that insane hour, when the guiltiest and bloodiest rebellion of time hurled its fires upon this fort, you, sir [turning to General Anderson], and a small heroic band, stood within these now crumbled walls, and did gallant and just battle for the honor and defence of the nation’s banner....

“After a vain resistance, with trembling hand and sad heart you withdrew the banner from its height, closed its wings, and bore it far away to sleep amid the tumults of rebellion and the thunder of battle....

“To-day you are returned again. The heavens over you are the same; the same shores are here; morning and evening come as they did. All else how changed! What grim batteries crowd the burdened shores! What scenes have filled this air and disturbed these waters! These shattered heaps of shapeless stone are all that is left of Fort Sumter. Desolation broods in yonder sad city; solemn retribution hath avenged our dishonored banner. You, who departed hence four years ago, leaving the air sultry with fanaticism, have come back with honor. The surging crowds that rolled up their frenzied shouts, as the flag came down, are dead, or scattered, or silent, and their habitations are desolate. Ruin sits in the cradle of treason. Rebellion has perished. But there flies the same flag that was insulted. With starry eyes it looks all over this bay for that banner that supplanted it, and sees it not. You that then, for the day, were humbled, are here again, to triumph once and for ever. In the storm of that assault this glorious ensign was often struck; but, memorable fact, not one of its stars was torn out by shot or shell. It was a prophecy. It said, ‘Not one State shall be struck from this nation by treason.’ The fulfilment is at hand. Lifted to the air to-day, it proclaims that, after four years of war, ‘not a State is blotted out!’...

“Wherefore have we come hither, pilgrims from distant places? Are we come to exult that Northern hands are stronger than Southern? No; but to rejoice that the hands of those who defend a just and beneficent government are mightier than the hands that assaulted it! Do we exult over fallen cities? We exult that a nation has not fallen. We sorrow with the sorrowful. We sympathize with the desolate. We look upon this shattered fort and yonder dilapidated city, with sad eyes, grieved that men should have committed such treason, and glad that God hath set such a mark upon treason that all ages shall dread and abhor it.

“We exult, not for a passion gratified, but for a sentiment victorious; not for temper, but for conscience; not, as we devoutly believe, that our will is done, but that God’s will hath been done! We should be unworthy of that liberty entrusted to our care if, on such a day as this, we sullied our hearts by feelings of aimless vengeance; and equally unworthy if we did not devoutly thank Him who hath said, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord,’ that He hath set a mark upon arrogant Rebellion, ineffaceable while time lasts!...

“That long night is ended! And for this returning day we have come from afar, to rejoice and give thanks. No more war. No more accursed secession! No more slavery, that spawned them both!

“Let no man misread the meaning of this unfolding flag! It says, ‘Government hath returned hither.’ It proclaims, in the name of vindicated government, peace and protection to loyalty, humiliation and pains to traitors. This is the flag of sovereignty. The nation, not the States, is sovereign. Restored to authority, this flag commands, not supplicates.

“There may be pardon, but no concession. There may be amnesty and oblivion, but no honeyed compromises. The nation to-day has peace for the peaceful, and war for the turbulent. The only condition of submission, is, to submit! There is the Constitution, there are the laws, there is the government. They rise up like mountains of strength that shall not be moved. They are the conditions of peace.

”One nation, under one government, without slavery, has been ordained and shall stand. There can be peace on no other basis. On this basis reconstruction is easy, and needs neither architect nor engineer. Without this basis no engineer or architect shall ever reconstruct these rebellious States....

“I charge the whole guilt of this war upon the ambitious, educated, plotting political leaders of the South. They have shed this ocean of blood. They have desolated the South. They have poured poverty through all her towns and cities. They have bewildered the imagination of the people with phantasms, and led them to believe that they were fighting for their homes and liberty, whose homes were unthreatened, and whose liberty was in no jeopardy....

”But for the people misled, for the multitudes drafted and driven into this civil war, let not a trace of animosity remain. The moment their willing hand drops the musket and they return to their allegiance, then stretch out your own honest right hand to greet them. Recall to them the old days of kindness. Our hearts wait for their redemption. All the resources of a renovated nation shall be applied to rebuild their prosperity and smooth down the furrows of war.”

After the ceremonies of the 14th Mr. Beecher and his party spent two days in visiting the various historic points in the city and harbor of Charleston, then went to Hilton Head, where the steamer Sua Nada was placed at his disposal by the government.

From Hilton Head Mr. Beecher and his party went on an excursion visit to Beaufort. The day, which opened so bright and beautiful, was to close in the gloom which overshadowed the nation. The near points of interest about Beaufort had all been seen, and the party, full of the joyous brightness of the day, were sauntering back to the boat which was to take them to Hilton Head, when a telegram was handed to Senator Wilson that drove the smile from every lip. Lincoln had fallen, struck down by an assassin! Dazed and bewildered, for a few moments all stood silent; then Mr. Beecher exclaimed, “It’s time all good men were at home,” and in mournful silence they hastened back to Hilton Head. The Sua Nada was ordered to get under weigh at once. In sadness and gloom the party, that but a few days before had left New York with hearts filled with joy and thankfulness, now hastened back through dreary rain-storms—nature’s sympathetic mourning.

We can best describe that awful sorrow by quoting from Mr. Beecher’s sermon preached in memory of the martyr:

“Never did two such orbs of experience meet in one hemisphere as the joy and the sorrow of the same week in this land. The joy was as sudden as if no man had expected it, and as entrancing as if it had fallen a sphere from heaven. It rose up over sobriety, and swept business from its moorings, and ran down through the land in irresistible course. Men embraced each other in brotherhood that were strangers in the flesh. They sang, or prayed, or, deeper yet, many could only think thanksgiving and weep gladness. That peace was sure; that government was firmer than ever; that the land was cleansed of plague; that the ages were opening to our footsteps, and we were to begin a march of blessings; that blood was stanched, and scowling enmities were sinking like storms beneath the horizon; that the dear fatherland, nothing lost, much gained, was to rise up in unexampled honor among the nations of the earth—these thoughts, and that undistinguishable throng of fancies, and hopes, and desires, and yearnings that filled the soul with tremblings like the heated air of midsummer days, all these kindled up such a surge of joy as no words may describe.

“In one hour joy lay without a pulse, without a gleam or breath. A sorrow came that swept through the land as huge storms sweep through the forest and field, rolling thunder along the sky, dishevelling the flowers, daunting every singer in thicket or forest, and pouring blackness and darkness across the land and up the mountains. Did ever so many hearts, in so brief a time, touch two such boundless feelings? It was the uttermost of joy: it was the uttermost of sorrow—noon and midnight, without a space between.

“The blow brought not a sharp pang. It was so terrible that at first it stunned sensibility. Citizens were like men awakened at midnight by an earthquake, and bewildered to find everything that they were accustomed to trust wavering and falling. The very earth was no longer solid. The first feeling was the least. Men waited to get straight to feel. They wandered in the streets as if groping after some impending dread, or undeveloped sorrow, or some one to tell them what ailed them. They met each other as if each would ask the other, ‘Am I awake, or do I dream?’ There was a piteous helplessness. Strong men bowed down and wept. Other and common griefs belonged to some one in chief: this belonged to all. It was each and every man’s. Every virtuous household in the land felt as if its first-born were gone. Men were bereaved, and walked for days as if a corpse lay unburied in their dwellings. There was nothing else to think of. They could speak of nothing but that; and yet of that they could speak only falteringly. All business was laid aside. Pleasure forgot to smile. The city for nearly a week ceased to roar. The great Leviathan lay down and was still. Even avarice stood still, and greed was strangely moved to generous sympathy and universal sorrow. Rear to his name monuments, found charitable institutions and write his name above their lintels; but no monument will ever equal the universal, spontaneous, and sublime sorrow that in a moment swept down lines and parties, and covered up animosities, and in an hour brought a divided people into unity of grief and indivisible fellowship of anguish.”