This morning, after breakfast, Mr. Sanford called, according
to promise, and took me to the State department. It is a very humble — in fact,
dingy — mansion, two stories high, and situated at the end of the magnificent
line of colonnade in white marble, called the Treasury, which is hereafter to
do duty as the head-quarters of nearly all the public departments. People
familiar with Downing Street, however, cannot object to the dinginess of the
bureaux in which the foreign and state affairs of the American Republic are
transacted. A flight of steps leads to the hall-door, on which an announcement
in writing is affixed, to indicate the days of reception for the various
classes of persons who have business with the Secretary of State; in the hall,
on the right and left, are small rooms, with the names of the different
officers on the doors — most of them persons of importance; half-way in the
hall a flight of stairs conducts us to a similar corridor, rather dark, with
doors on each side opening into the bureaux of the chief clerks. All the
appointments were very quiet, and one would see much more bustle in the
passages of a Poor Law Board or a parish vestry.
In a moderately sized, but very comfortable, apartment,
surrounded with book-shelves, and ornamented with a few engravings, we found
the Secretary of State seated at his table, and enjoying a cigar; he received
me with great courtesy and kindness, and after a time said he would take
occasion to present me to the President, who was to give audience that day to
the minister of the new kingdom of Italy, who had hitherto only represented the
kingdom of Sardinia.
I have already described Mr. Seward's personal appearance;
his son, to whom he introduced me, is the Assistant-Secretary of State, and is
editor or proprietor of a journal in the State of New York, which has a
reputation for ability and fairness. Mr. Frederick Seward is a slight
delicate-looking man, with a high forehead, thoughtful brow, dark eyes, and
amiable expression; his manner is very placid and modest, and, if not reserved,
he is by no means loquacious. As we were speaking, a carriage drove up to the door,
and Mr. Seward exclaimed to his father, with something like dismay in his
voice, “Here comes the Chevalier in full uniform!” — and in a few seconds in
effect the Chevalier Bertinatti made his appearance, in cocked hat, white
gloves, diplomatic suit of blue and silver lace, sword, sash, and ribbon of the
cross of Savoy. I thought there was a quiet smile on Mr. Seward's face as he
saw his brilliant companion, who contrasted so strongly with the more than
republican simplicity of his own attire. “Fred., do you take Mr. Russell round
to the President's, whilst I go with the Chevalier. We will meet at the White
House.” We accordingly set out through a private door leading to the grounds,
and within a few seconds entered the hall of the moderate mansion, White House,
which has very much the air of a portion of a bank or public office, being
provided with glass doors and plain heavy chairs and forms. The domestic who
was in attendance was dressed like any ordinary citizen, and seemed perfectly
indifferent to the high position of the great personage with whom he conversed,
when Mr. Seward asked him, “Where is the President?” Passing through one of the
doors on the left, we entered a handsome spacious room, richly and rather
gorgeously furnished, and rejoicing in a kind of “demi-jour,” which gave increased effect
to the gilt chairs and ormolu ornaments. Mr. Seward and the Chevalier stood in
the centre of the room, whilst his son and I remained a little on one side: “For,”
said Mr. Seward, “you are not to be supposed to be here.”
Soon afterwards there entered, with a shambling, loose,
irregular, almost unsteady gait, a tall, lank, lean man, considerably over six
feet in height, with stooping shoulders, long pendulous arms, terminating in
hands of extraordinary dimensions, which, however, were far exceeded in
proportion by his feet. He was dressed in an ill-fitting, wrinkled suit of
black, which put one in mind of an undertaker's uniform at a funeral; round his
neck a rope of black silk was knotted in a large bulb, with flying ends
projecting beyond the collar of his coat; his turned-down shirt-collar
disclosed a sinewy muscular yellow neck, and above that, nestling in a great
black mass of hair, bristling and compact like a ruff of mourning pins, rose
the strange quaint face and head, covered with its thatch of wild republican
hair, of President Lincoln. The impression produced by the size of his
extremities, and by his flapping and wide projecting ears, may be removed by
the appearance of kindliness, sagacity, and the awkward bonhommie of his face;
the mouth is absolutely prodigious; the lips, straggling and extending almost
from one line of black beard to the other, are only kept in order by two deep
furrows from the nostril to the chin; the nose itself—a prominent organ —
stands out from the face, with an inquiring, anxious air, as though it were
sniffing for some good thing in the wind; the eyes dark, full, and deeply set,
are penetrating, but full of an expression which almost amounts to tenderness;
and above them projects the shaggy brow, running into the small hard frontal
space, the development of which can scarcely be estimated accurately, owing to
the irregular flocks of thick hair carelessly brushed across it. One would say
that, although the mouth was made to enjoy a joke, it could also utter the
severest sentence which the head could dictate, but that Mr. Lincoln would be
ever more willing to temper justice with mercy, and to enjoy what he considers
the amenities of life, than to take a harsh view of men's nature and of the
world, and to estimate things in an ascetic or puritan spirit. A person who met
Mr. Lincoln in the street would not take him to be what — according to the
usages of European society — is called a “gentleman;” and, indeed, since I came
to the United States, I have heard more disparaging allusions made by Americans
to him on that account than I could have expected among simple republicans,
where all should be equals; but, at the same time, it would not be possible for
the most indifferent observer to pass him in the street without notice.
As he advanced through the room, he evidently controlled a
desire to shake hands all round with everybody, and smiled good-humoredly till
he was suddenly brought up by the staid deportment of Mr. Seward, and by the
profound diplomatic bows of the Chevalier Bertinatti. Then, indeed, he suddenly
jerked himself back, and stood in front of the two ministers, with his body
slightly drooped forward, and his hands behind his back, his knees touching,
and his feet apart. Mr. Seward formally presented the minister, whereupon the
President made a prodigiously violent demonstration of his body in a bow which
had almost the effect of a smack in its rapidity and abruptness, and,
recovering himself, proceeded to give his utmost attention, whilst the
Chevalier, with another bow, read from a paper a long address in presenting the
royal letter accrediting him as “minister resident;” and when he said that “the
king desired to give, under your enlightened administration, all possible
strength and extent to those sentiments of frank sympathy which do not cease to
be exhibited every moment between the two peoples, and whose origin
dates back as far as the exertions which have presided over their common
destiny as self-governing and free nations,” the President gave another bow
still more violent, as much as to accept the allusion.
The minister forthwith handed his letter to the President,
who gave it into the custody of Mr. Seward, and then, dipping his hand into his
coat-pocket, Mr. Lincoln drew out a sheet of paper, from which he read his reply,
the most remarkable part of which was his doctrine “that the United States were
bound by duty not to interfere with the differences of foreign governments and
countries.” After some words of compliment, the President shook hands with the
minister, who soon afterwards retired. Mr. Seward then took me by the hand and
said — “Mr. President, allow me to present to you Mr. Russell, of the London ‘Times.’”
On which Mr. Lincoln put out his hand in a very friendly manner, and said, “Mr.
Russell, I am very glad to make your acquaintance, and to see you in this
country. The London ‘Times’ is
one of the greatest powers in the world, — in fact, I don't know anything which
has much more power, — except perhaps the Mississippi. I am glad to know you as
its minister.” Conversation ensued for some minutes, which the President
enlivened by two or three peculiar little sallies, and I left agreeably
impressed with his shrewdness, humor, and natural sagacity.
In the evening I dined with Mr. Seward, in company with his
son, Mr. Seward, junior, Mr. Sanford, and a quaint, natural specimen of an
American rustic lawyer, who was going to Brussels as Secretary of Legation. His
chief, Mr. Sanford, did not appear altogether happy when introduced to his
secretary, for he found that he had a very limited knowledge (if any) of
French, and of other things which it is generally considered desirable that
secretaries should know.
Very naturally, conversation turned on politics. Although no
man can foresee the nature of the crisis which is coming, nor the mode in which
it is to be encountered, the faith of men like Mr. Sanford and Mr. Seward in
the ultimate success of their principles, and in the integrity of the Republic,
is very remark able; and the boldness of their language in reference to foreign
powers almost amounts to arrogance and menace, if not to temerity. Mr. Seward
asserted that the Ministers of England or of France had no right to make any
allusion to the civil war which appeared imminent; and that the Southern
Commissioners who had been sent abroad could not be received by the Government
of any foreign power, officially or otherwise, even to hand in a document or to
make a representation, without incurring the risk of breaking off relations
with the Government of the United States. As regards the great object of public
curiosity, the relief of Fort Sumter, Mr. Seward maintains a profound silence,
beyond the mere declaration, made with a pleasant twinkle of the eye, that “the
whole policy of the Government, on that and other questions, is put forth in
the
President's inaugural, from which there will be no deviation. Turning to
the inaugural message, however, there is no such very certain indication, as
Mr. Seward pretends to discover, of the course to be pursued by Mr. Lincoln and
the cabinet. To an outside observer, like myself, it seems as if they were
waiting for events to develop themselves, and rested their policy rather upon
acts that had occurred, than upon any definite principle designed to control or
direct the future.
I should here add that Mr. Seward spoke in high terms of the
ability, dexterity, and personal qualities of Mr. Jefferson Davis, and declared
his belief that but for him the Secession movement never could have succeeded
as far as it has gone, and would, in all probability, indeed, have never taken
place at all. After dinner cigars were introduced, and a quiet little rubber of
whist followed. The Secretary is given to expatiate at large, and told us many
anecdotes of foreign travel; — it I am not doing him injustice, I would say
further, that he remembers his visit to England, and the attention he received
there, with peculiar satisfaction. He cannot be found fault with because he has
formed a most exalted notion of the superior intelligence, virtue, happiness,
and prosperity of his own people. He said that it would not be proper for him
to hold any communication with the Southern Commissioners then in Washington;
which rather surprised me, after what I had heard from their friend, Mr. Banks.
On returning to my hotel, I found a card from the President, inviting me to
dinner the following day.
SOURCE: William Howard Russell, My Diary North and
South, p. 36-40
