A NATIONAL AWAKENING

The war cloud that burst upon the country in 1861 was no surprise to sagacious observers. For many years it had been visible, at times a mere speck in the sky, again growing larger and more angry in appearance. It would disappear, sanguine patriots hoped forever, only to come again, full of dire portent and evil menacings. All men who were not blind saw it, but most of them trusted, many believed, that it would pass over and do no harm. Some of those high in authority blindly pinned their faith to luck and shut their eyes to the peril. Danger signals were set, but the mariners who were trying to steer the Ship of State, let her drift, making slight, if any, efforts to put her up against the wind and keep her off the rocks.

It is likely, however, that the Civil War was one of those things that had to be; that it was a means used by destiny to shape our ends; that it was needed to bring out those fine traits of National character which, up to that time, were not known to exist. Southern blood was hot and Northern blood was cold. Though citizens of one country, the people of the North and the people of the South were separated by a wide gulf in their interests and in their feelings. Doubt had been freely thrown upon the courage of the men who lived north of Mason and Dixon's line. The haughty slave owners and slave dealers affected to believe, many of them did believe, that one southern man could whip five "yankees." It took four years of war to teach them a different lesson.

It was the old story of highland and lowland feud, of the white rose and the red rose, of roundhead and cavalier, of foemen worthy of each other's steel fighting to weld "discordant and belligerent elements" into a homogeneous whole.

But war is not always an unmixed evil. Sometimes it is a positive good, and the Nation emerged from its great struggle more united than ever. The sections had learned to respect each other's prowess and to know each other's virtues. The cement that bound the union of states was no longer like wax to be melted by the fervent heat of political strifes. It had been tested and tempered in the fiery furnace of civil war. The history of that war often has been written. Much has been written that is not history. But whether fact or fiction, the story is read with undiminished interest as the years rush by.

One story there is that has not been told, at least not all of it; nor will it be until the last of those who took part in that great drama shall have gone over to the silent majority. It is the story of the individual experiences of the men who stood in the ranks, or of the officers who held no high rank; who knew little of plans and strategy, but bore their part of the burden and obeyed orders. There was no army, no corps, no division, brigade, or regiment, scarcely a battery, troop, or company, which went through that struggle, or a soldier who served in the field "for three years or during the war," whose experiences did not differ from any other, whose history would not contain many features peculiar to itself or himself. Two regiments in the same command, two soldiers in the same regiment, might get entirely different impressions of the battle in which both participated. Two equally truthful accounts might vary greatly in their details. What one saw, another might not see, and each could judge correctly only of what he, himself, witnessed. This fact accounts, in part, for the many contradictions, which are not contradictions, in the "annals of the war." The witnesses did not occupy the same standpoint. They were looking at different parts of the same panorama. Oftentimes they are like the two knights who slew each other in a quarrel about the color of a shield. One said it was red, the other declared it was green. Both were right, for it was red on one side and green on the other.

On such flimsy pretexts do men and nations wage war. Why then wonder if historians differ also? In the "Wilderness," each man's view was bounded by a very narrow horizon and few knew what was going on outside their range of vision. What was true of the "Wilderness" was true of nearly every battle fought between the union and confederate forces. No picture of a battle, whether it be painted in words or in colors, can bring into the perspective more than a glimpse of the actual field. No man could possibly have been stationed where he could see it all. Hence it came to pass that many a private soldier knew things which the corps commander did not know; and saw things which others did not see. The official reports, for the most part, furnish but a bare outline and are often misleading. The details may be put in by an infinite number of hands, and those features that seen separately appear incongruous, when blended will form a perfect picture. But it must be seen, like a panorama, in parts, for no single eye could take in, at once, all the details in a picture of a battle.

In the winter of 1855-56, while engaged as assistant factotum in a general lumbering and mercantile business in the pine woods of Northern Michigan, one of my functions was that of assistant postmaster, which led to getting up a "club" for the New York Weekly Tribune, the premium for which was an extra copy for myself. The result was that in due time my mind was imbued with the principles of Horace Greeley.

The boys who read the Tribune in the fifties were being unconsciously molded into the men, who, a few years later, rushed to the rescue of their country's flag. The seed sown by Horace Greeley, and others like him, brought forth a rich crop of loyalty, of devotion and self-sacrifice that was garnered in the war.

In the latter part of the year 1860, the air was full of threatenings. The country was clearly on the verge of civil war, and the feeling almost as intense as it was in the following April, after the flash of Edmund Ruffin's gun had fired the Northern heart.

In October, I came a freshman into the University of Michigan, in Ann Arbor. That noble institution was, even then, the pride of the Peninsula state. A superb corps of instructors, headed by Henry P. Tappan, the noblest Roman of them all, smoothed the pathway to learning which a thousand young men were trying to tread. These boys were full of life, vigor, ambition and energy. They were from various parts of the country, though but few were from the Southern States. The atmosphere of the place was wholesome, and calculated to develop a robust, courageous manhood. The students were led to study the best antique models, and to emulate the heroic traits of character in the great men of modern times. It may be said that nowhere in the land did the fires of patriotism burn with more fervent heat, during the eventful and exciting period that preceded by a few months the inauguration of Abraham Lincoln.

The young men took a deep interest in the political campaign of that year, and watched with eager faces for every item of news that pertained to it.

The nomination of Abraham Lincoln was a bitter disappointment to the young Republicans of Michigan. Seward was their idol and their ideal, and when the news came of his defeat in the Chicago convention, many men shed tears, who later learned to love the very ground on which the Illinois "Railsplitter" stood; and who today cherish his memory with the same reverential respect which they feel for that of Washington.

During that memorable campaign, Seward spoke in Detroit and scores of students went from Ann Arbor to hear him. He did not impress one as a great orator. He was of slight frame, but of a noble and intellectual cast of countenance. His arguments were convincing, his language well-chosen, but he was somewhat lacking in the physical attributes so essential to perfect success as a public speaker. His features were very marked, with a big nose, a firm jaw, a lofty forehead, and a skin almost colorless. He had been the choice of Michigan for president and was received with the warmest demonstrations of respect and enthusiasm. Every word that fell from his lips was eagerly caught up by the great multitude. It was a proud day for him, and his heart must have been touched by the abounding evidences of affection.

Seward was looked upon as the embodiment of sagacious statesmanship and political prescience, but how far he fell short of comprehending the real magnitude of the crisis then impending, was shown by his prediction that the war would last but ninety days. His famous dictum about the "irrepressible conflict" did him more credit.

That same year, Salmon P. Chase also spoke in Michigan. There were giants in those days. Chase was not at all like Seward in his appearance. Tall and of commanding figure, he was a man of perfect physique. He had an expressive face and an excellent voice, well adapted to out-door speaking. In manner, he appeared somewhat pompous, and the impression he left on the mind of the listener was not so agreeable as that retained of the great New Yorker.

At some time during the summer of 1860, Stephen A. Douglas passed through Michigan over the Central Railroad. His train stopped at all stations and hundreds of students flocked to see and hear him. He came off the car to a temporary platform, and for twenty minutes, that sea of faces gazing at him with rapt attention, talked with great rapidity, but with such earnestness and force as to enchain the minds of his hearers. His remarks were in part stereotyped, and he made much of his well-worn argument about the right of the territories to "regulate their own domestic institutions in their own way, subject only to the constitution." In manner, he was easy and graceful, in appearance, striking. He spoke with no apparent effort. Of massive frame, though short in stature, after the manner of General Sheridan, his head was large and set off by a luxuriant growth of hair that served to enhance its apparent size. His face was smooth, full and florid, the hue rather suggestive. His countenance and bearing indicated force, courage and tenacity of purpose. I was not surprised when he announced that he was on the side of the Union, and believe that, had he lived, he would have been, like Logan, a great soldier and a loyal supporter of Lincoln. He was a patriot of the purest type and one of the ablest men of his time.

A significant incident of the winter of 1860-61, seems worth recalling. That period was one of the most intense excitement. What with the secession of the Southern States, the resignation of Senators and Members of Congress, and the vacillating course of the Buchanan administration, the outlook was gloomy in the extreme. There were in the University a number of students from the South, and they kept their trunks packed ready to leave at a moment's notice. Party feeling ran high, and the tension was painful. William Lloyd Garrison came to Ann Arbor to speak and could not get a hall, but finally succeeded in securing a building used for a school-house, in the lower part of the town. Here he was set upon by a lot of roughs, who interrupted him with cat-calls and hisses, and made demonstrations so threatening, that, to avoid bodily injury, he was compelled to make his exit through a window. The affair was laid to the students, and some of them were engaged in it, to their discredit, be it said. It was not safe for an "Abolitionist" to free his mind even in the "Athens" of Michigan. Harper's Weekly published an illustrative cut of the scene, and Ann Arbor achieved an unenviable notoriety.

One day all hands went to the train to see the Prince of Wales, who was to pass through, on his way to Chicago. There was much curiosity to see the queen's son. He had been treated with distinguished consideration in the East and was going to take a look at the Western metropolis. There was a big crowd at the station, but his royal highness did not deign to notice us, much less to come out and make a speech, as Douglas did, who was a much greater man. But the "Little Giant" was neither a prince nor the son of a prince, though a "sovereign" in his own right, as is every American citizen. Through the open window, however, we had a glimpse of the scion of royalty, and saw a rather unpretentious looking young person, in the garb of a gentleman. The Duke of Newcastle stood on the platform, where he could be seen, and looked and acted much like an ordinary mortal. The boys agreed that he might make a very fair governor or congressman, if he were to turn Democrat and become a citizen of the land of the free and the home of the brave.

The faculty in the University of Michigan, in 1860, was a brilliant one, including the names of many who have had a world-wide reputation as scholars and savants. Andrew D. White, since President of Cornell University and distinguished in the diplomatic service of his country, was professor of history. Henry P. Tappan, President of the University, or "Chancellor," as he was fond of being styled, after the manner of the Germans, was a magnificent specimen of manhood, intellectually and physically. Tall and majestic in appearance, he had a massive head and noble countenance, an intellect profound and brilliant. No wonder that he was worshiped, for he was god-like in form and in mind. Like many another great man, however, it was his fate to incur the enmity of certain others too narrow and mean to appreciate either his ability or his nobility of character. Being on the Board of Regents they had the power, and used it relentlessly, to drive him out of the seat of learning which he had done more than all others to build up and to honor. The University was his pride and glory and when he was thus smitten in the house of his friends he shook the dust from his feet and went away, never to return. It is a sad story. He died abroad, after having been for many years an exile from his native land. The feeling against these men was bitter in the extreme. The students hung one of them in effigy and marched in a body to the house of the other and assailed it with stones and missiles, meantime filling the air with execrations on his head. Both long since ceased to be remembered, even by name, but the memory of Tappan remains as one of the choicest traditions of the University, and it will be as enduring as the life of the institution itself.