The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No 3, September, 1862

Up and act! We are waiting for grass to grow while the horse is starving! Let the Administration no longer hold back, for lo! the people are ready and willing, and one grasp at a fiercely brave, decided policy would send a roar of approval from ocean to ocean. One tenth part of the wild desire to adopt instant and energetic measures which is now struggling into life among the people, would, if transferred to their leaders, send opposition, North and South, howling to Hades. We find the irrepressible discontent gathering around like a thunder-storm. It reaches us in letters. We know that it is growing tremendously in the army—the discontent which demands a bold policy, active measures, and one great overwhelming blow. Every woman cries for it—it is everywhere! Mr. Lincoln, you have waited for the people, and we tell you that the people are now ready. The three hundred thousand volunteers are coming bravely on; but, we tell you, Draft! That's the thing. The very word has already sent a chill through the South. They have seen what can be done by bold, overwhelming military measures; by driving every man into arms; by being headlong and fearless; and know that it has put them at once on equality with us—they, the half minority! And they know, too, that when WE once begin the 'big game,' all will be up with them. We have more than twice as many men here, and their own blacks are but a broken reed. When we begin to draft, however, war will begin in earnest. They dread that drafting far more than volunteering. They know by experience, what we have not as yet learned, that drafting contains many strange secrets of success. It is a bold conscriptive measure, and indicates serious strength and the consciousness of strength in government. Our government has hitherto lain half-asleep, half-awake, a great, good-natured giant, now and then rolling over and crushing some of the rats running over his bed, and now and then getting very badly bitten. Wake up, Giant Samuel, all in the morning early! The rats are coming down on thee, old friend, not by scores, but by tens of thousands! Jump up, my jolly giant! for verily, things begin to look serious. You must play the Wide-Awake game now; grasp your stick, knock them right and left; call in the celebrated dog Halleck, who can kill his thousand rats an hour, and cry to Sambo to carry out the dead and bury them! It's rats now, friend Samuel, if it ever was!

Can not the North play the entire game, and shake out the bag, as well as the South? They have bundled out every man and dollar, dog, cat, and tenpenny nail into the war, and done it gloriously. They have stopped at nothing, feared nothing, believed in nothing but victory. Now let the North step out! Life and wife, lands and kin, will be of small value if we are to lose this battle and become the citizens of a broken country, going backward instead of forward—a country with a past, but no future. Better draw every man into the army, and leave the women to hoe and reap, ere we come to that. Draft, Abraham Lincoln—draft, in God's name! Let us have one rousing, tremendous pull at victory! Send out such armies as never were seen before. The West has grain enough to feed them, and tide what may betide, you can arm them. Let us try what WE can do when it comes to the last emergency.

When we arise in our full strength, England and France and the South will be as gnats in the flame before us. And there is no time to lose. France is 'tinkering away' at Mexico; foreign cannon are to pass from Mexico into the South; our foe is considering the aggressive policy. Abraham Lincoln, the time has come! Canada is to attack from the North, and France from Mexico. Your three hundred thousand are a trifle; draw out your million; draw the last man who can bear arms—and let it be done quickly! This is your policy. Let the blows rain thick and fast. Hurrah! Uncle Samuel—the rats are running! Strike quick, though—very quick—and you will be saved!

REMINISCENCES OF ANDREW JACKSON

All public exhibitions have their peculiar physiognomies. During the passage of General Jackson through Philadelphia, there was a very strong party opposed to him, which gave a feature to the show differing from others we had witnessed, but which became subdued in a degree by his appearance. A firm and imposing figure on horseback, General Jackson was perfectly at home in the saddle. Dressed in black, with a broad-brimmed white beaver hat, craped in consequence of the recent death of his wife, he bowed with composed ease and a somewhat military grace to the multitude. His tall, thin, bony frame, surmounted by a venerable, weather-beaten, strongly-lined and original countenance, with stiff, upright, gray hair, changed the opinion which some had previously formed. His military services were important, his career undoubtedly patriotic; but he had interfered with many and deep interests. There was much dissentient humming.

The General bowed right and left, lifting his hat often from his head, appearing at the same time dignified and kind. When the cavalcade first marched down Chestnut street, there was no immediate escort, or it did not act efficiently. Rude fellows on horseback, of the roughest description, sat sideling on their torn saddles just before the President, gazing vacantly in his face as they would from the gallery of a theatre, but interrupting the view of his person from other portions of the public.

James Reeside, the celebrated mail-contractor, became very much provoked at one of these fellows. Reeside rode a powerful horse before the President, and with a heavy, long-lashed riding-whip in his hand, attempted to drive the man's broken-down steed out of the way. But the animal was as impervious to feeling as the rider to sense or decency, and Reeside had little influence over a dense crowd, till the escort exercised a proper authority in front. I saw the General smile at Reeside's eagerness to clear the way for him. Of course, this sketch is a glimpse at a certain point where the procession passed me. I viewed it again in Arch street, and noticed the calmness with which the General saluted a crowd of negroes who suddenly gave him a hearty cheer from the wall of a graveyard where they were perched. He had just taken off his hat to some ladies waving handkerchiefs on the opposite side of the street, when he heard the huzza, and replied by a salutation to the unexpected but not despised color.

After the fatigue of the parade, when invited to take some refreshment, Jackson asked for boiled rice and milk at dinner. There was some slight delay to procure them, but he declined any thing else.

I recollect an anecdote of Daniel Webster in relation to General Jackson, which I wish to preserve. On some public occasion, an entertainment was given, under large tents, near Point-no-Point, in Philadelphia county, which the representatives to the Legislature were generally invited to attend. Political antipathies and prejudices were excessive at that day. No moderate person was tolerated, in the slightest degree, by the more violent opponents of the Administration. Mr. Webster was present, and rose to speak. His intelligent and serious air of grave thought was impressively felt. He spoke his objections to a certain policy of the Administration with a gentle firmness. I sat near him. One of his intolerant friends made an inquiry, either at the close of a short dinner-table address, or during his speech, if 'he was not still in the practice of visiting at the White House?' I saw Webster's brow become clouded, as he calmly but slowly explained, 'His position as Senator required him to have occasional intercourse with the President of the United States, whose views upon some points of national policy differed widely from those he (Webster) was well known to entertain;' when, as if his noble spirit became suddenly aware of the narrow meanness that had induced the question, he raised himself to his full hight, and looking firmly at his audience, with a pause, till he caught the eye of the inquirer, he continued: 'I hope to God, gentlemen, never to live to see the day when a Senator of the United States can not call upon the Chief Magistrate of the nation, on account of any differences in opinion either may possess upon public affairs!' This honorable, patriotic, and liberal expression was most cordially applauded by all parties. Many left that meeting with a sense of relief from the oppression of political intolerance, so nearly allied to the tyranny of religious bigotry.

I had been introduced, and was sitting with a number of gentlemen in a circle round the fire of the President's room, when James Buchanan presented himself for the first time, as a Senator of the United States from his native State. 'I am happy to see you, Mr. Buchanan,' said General Jackson, rising and shaking him heartily by the hand, 'both personally and politically. Sit down, sir.' The conversation was social. Some one brought in a lighted corn-cob pipe, with a long reed-stalk, for the President to smoke. He appeared waiting for it. As he puffed at it, a Western man asked some question about the fire which had been reported at the Hermitage. The answer made was, 'it had not been much injured,' I think, 'but the family had moved temporarily into a log-house,' in which, the General observed, 'he had spent some of the happiest days of his life.' He then, as if excited by old recollections, told us he had an excellent plantation, fine cattle, noble horses, a large still-house, and so on. 'Why, General,' laughed his Western friend, 'I thought I saw your name, the other day, along with those of other prominent men, advocating the cold-water system?' 'I did sign something of the kind,' replied the veteran, very coolly puffing at his pipe, 'but I had a very good distillery, for all that!' Before markets became convenient, almost all large plantations had stills to use up the surplus grains, which could not be sold to a profit near home. Tanneries and blacksmiths' shops were also accompaniments, for essential convenience.

Martin, the President's door-keeper, was very independent, at times, to visitors at the White House, especially if he had been indulging with his friends, as was now and then the case. But he was somewhat privileged, on account of his fidelity and humor. Upon one occasion he gave great offense to some water-drinking Democrats—rather a rare specimen at that day—who complained to the President. He promised to speak to Martin about it. The first opportunity—early, while Martin was cool—the President sent for him in private, and mentioned the objection. 'Och! Jineral, dear!' said Martin, looking him earnestly in the face, 'I'de hev enough to do ef I give ear to all the nonsense people tell me, even about yerself, Jineral! I wonther who folks don't complain about, now-a-days? But if they are friends of yours, Jineral, they maybe hed cause, ef I could only recollict what it was! So we'll jist let it pass by this time, ef you plase, sur!' Martin remained in his station. When the successor of Mr. Van Buren came in, the door-keeper presented himself soon after to the new President, with the civil inquiry: 'I suppose I'll hev to flit, too, with the other Martin?' He was smilingly told to be easy.

I saw General Jackson riding in an open carriage, in earnest conversation with his successor, as I was on the way to the Capitol to witness the inaugural oath. A few days after, I shook hands with him for the last time, as he sat in a railroad-car, about to leave Washington for the West. Crowds of all classes leaped up to offer such salutations, all of whom he received with the same easy, courteous, decided manner he had exhibited on other occasions.

SHAKSPEARE'S CARICATURE OF RICHARD III

'The youth of England have been said to take their religion from Milton, and their history from Shakspeare:' and as far as they draw the character of the last royal Plantagenet from the bloody ogre which every grand tragedian has delighted to personate, they set up invention on the pedestal of fact, and prefer slander to truth. Even from the opening soliloquy, Shakspeare traduces, misrepresents, vilifies the man he had interested motives in making infamous; while at the death of Jack Cade, a cutting address is made to the future monarch upon his deformity, just TWO years before his birth! There is no sufficient authority for his having been

 
'Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half-made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable,
The dogs bark at me, as I halt by them.'
 

A Scotch commission addressed him with praise of the 'princely majesty and royal authority sparkling in his face.' Rev. Dr. Shaw's discourse to the Londoners, dwells upon the Protector's likeness to the noble Duke, his father: his mother was a beauty, his brothers were handsome: a monstrous contrast on Richard's part would have been alluded to by the accurate Philip de Comines: the only remaining print of his person is at least fair: the immensely heavy armor of the times may have bowed his form a little, and no doubt he was pale, and a little higher shouldered on the right than the left side: but, if Anne always loved him, as is now proved, and the princess Elizabeth sought his affection after the Queen's decease, he could not have been the hideous dwarf at which dogs howl. Nay, so far from there being an atom of truth in that famous wooing scene which provokes from Richard the sarcasm:

 
'Was ever woman in this humor wooed?
Was ever woman in this humor won?'
 

Richard actually detected her in the disguise of a kitchen-girl, at London, and renewed his early attachment in the court of the Archbishop of York. And while Anne was never in her lifetime charged with insensibility to the death of her relatives, or lack of feeling, she died not from any cruelty of his, but from weakness, and especially from grief over her boy's sudden decease. Richard indeed 'loved her early, loved her late,' and could neither have desired nor designed a calamity which lost him many English hearts. The burial of Henry VI. Richard himself solemnized with great state; a favor that no one of Henry's party was brave and generous enough to return to the last crowned head of the rival house.

Gloucester did not need to urge on the well-deserved doom of Clarence: both Houses of Parliament voted it; King Edward plead for it; the omnipotent relatives of the Queen hastened it with characteristic malice; they may have honestly believed that the peaceful succession of the crown was in peril so long as this plotting traitor lived. No doubt it was.

It is next to certain that Richard did not stab Henry VI., nor the murdered son of Margaret, though he had every provocation in the insults showered upon his father; was devotedly attached to King Edward, and hazarded for him person and life with a constancy then unparalleled and a zeal rewarded by his brother's entire confidence.

Certain names wear a halter in history, and his was one. Richard I. was assassinated in the siege of Chalone Castle; Richard II. was murdered at Pomfret; Richard, Earl of Southampton, was executed for treason; Richard, Duke of York, was beheaded with insult; his son, Richard III., fell by the perfidy of his nobles; Richard, the last Duke of York, was probably murdered by his uncle, in the Tower.

At the decease of his brother Edward, the Duke of Gloucester was not only the first prince of the blood royal, but was also a consummate statesman, intrepid soldier, generous giver, and prompt executor, naturally compassionate, as is proved by his large pensions to the families of his enemies, to Lady Hastings, Lady Rivers, the Duchess of Buckingham, and the rest; peculiarly devout, too, according to a pattern then getting antiquated, as is shown by his endowing colleges of priests, and bestowing funds for masses in his own behalf and others. Shakspeare never loses an opportunity of painting Gloucester's piety as sheer hypocrisy, but it was not thought so then; for there was a growing Protestant party whom all these Romanist manifestations of the highest nobleman in England greatly offended, not to say alarmed.

Richard's change of virtual into actual sovereignty, in other words, the Lord Protector's usurpation of the crown, was not done by violence: in his first royal procession he was unattended by troops; a fickle, intriguing, ambitious, and warlike nobility approved the change; Buckingham, Catesby, and others, urged it. No doubt he himself saw that the crown was not a fit plaything for a twelve years' old boy, in such a time of frequent treason, ferocious crime, and general recklessness. There is no question but what, as Richard had more head than any man in England, he was best fitted to be at its head.

The great mystery requiring to be explained is, not that 'the Lancastrian partialities of Shakspeare have,' as Walter Scott said, 'turned history upside down,' and since the battle of Bosworth, no party have had any interest in vindicating an utterly ruined cause, but how such troops of nobles revolted against a monarch alike brave and resolute, wise in council and energetic in act, generous to reward, but fearful to punish.

The only solution I am ready to admit is, the imputed assassination of his young nephews; not only an unnatural crime, but sacrilege to that divinity which was believed to hedge a king. The cotemporary ballad of the 'Babes in the Wood,' was circulated by Buckingham to inflame the English heart against one to whom he had thrown down the gauntlet for a deadly wrestle. Except that the youngest babe is a girl, and that the uncle perishes in prison, the tragedy and the ballad wonderfully keep pace together. In one, the prince's youth is put under charge of an uncle 'whom wealth and riches did surround;' in the other, 'the uncle is a man of high estate.' The play soothes the deserted mother with, 'Sister, have comfort;' the ballad with, 'Sweet sister, do not fear.' The drama says that:

 
'Dighton and Forrest, though they were fleshed villains,
Wept like two children, in their death's sad story.'
 

And the poem:

 
'He bargained with two ruffians strong,
Who were of furious mood.'
 

But

 
'That the pretty speech they had,
Made murderous hearts relent,
And they that took to do the deed.
Full sore did now repent.'
 

There is a like agreement in their deaths:

 
'Thus, thus, quoth Dighton, girdling one another
Within their alabaster, innocent arms.'
 

And the ballad:

 
'In one another's arms they died.'
 

Finally, the greatest of English tragedies represents Richard's remorse as:

 
'My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.'
 

While the most pathetic of English ballads gives it:

 
'And now the heavy wrath of God
Upon their uncle fell;
Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house.
His conscience felt a hell.'
 

As it is probable that this ballad was started on its rounds by Buckingham, the arch-plotter, was eagerly circulated by the Richmond conspirators, and sung all over the southern part of England as the fatal assault on Richard was about to be made, we shall hardly wonder that, in an age of few books and no journals, the imputed crime hurled a usurper from his throne.

But was he really guilty? Did he deserve to be set up as this scarecrow in English story? The weight of authority says, 'Yes;' facts are coming to light in the indefatigable research now being made in England, which may yet say: 'No.'

The charge was started by the unprincipled Buckingham to excuse his sudden conversion from an accomplice, if Shakspeare is to be credited, to a bloodthirsty foe. It was so little received that, months afterward, the convocation of British clergy addressed King Richard thus, 'Seeing your most noble and blessed disposition in all other things'—so little received that when Richmond actually appeared in the field, there was no popular insurrection in his behalf, only a few nobles joined him with their own forces; and when their treason triumphed, and his rival sat supreme on Richard's throne, the three pretended accomplices in the murder of the princes were so far from punishment that their chief held high office for nearly a score of years, and then perished for assisting at the escape of Lady Suffolk, of the house of York. And when Perkin Warbeck appeared in arms as the murdered Prince Edward, and the strongest possible motive urged Henry VII. to justify his usurpation by producing the bones of the murdered princes, (which two centuries afterward were pretended to be found at the foot of the Tower-stairs,) at least to publish to the world the three murderers' confessions, and demonstrate the absurdity of the popular insurrection, Lord Bacon himself says, that Henry could obtain no proof, though he spared neither money nor effort! We have even the statement of Polydore Virgil, in a history written by express desire of Henry VII., that 'it was generally reported and believed that Edward's sons were still alive, having been conveyed secretly away, and obscurely concealed in some distant region.'

And then the story is laden down with improbabilities. That Brakenbury should have refused this service to so willful a despot, yet not have fled from the penalty of disobedience, and even have received additional royal favors, and finally sacrificed his life, fighting bravely in behalf of the bloodiest villain that ever went unhung, is a large pill for credulity to swallow.

Again, that a mere page should have selected as chief butcher a nobleman high in office, knighted long before this in Scotland, and that this same Sir Edward Tyrrel should have been continued in office around the mother of the murdered princes, and honored year after year with high office by Henry VII., and actually made confidential governor of Guisnes, and royal commissioner for a treaty with France, seems perfectly incredible. All of Shakspeare's representation of this most slandered courtier is, indeed, utterly false; while Bacon's repetition of the principal charges only shows how impossible it is to recover a reputation that has once been lost, and how careless history has been in repeating calumnies that have once found circulation.

Bayley's history of the Tower proves that what has been popularly christened the Bloody Tower could never have been the scene of the supposed murder; that no bones were found under any staircase there; so that this pretended confirmation of the murder in the time of Charles II., on which many writers have relied, vanishes into the stuff which dreams are made of.

And yet by this charge which the antiquarian Stowe declared was 'never proved by any credible witness,' which Grafton, Hall, and Holinshead agreed could never be certainly known; which Bacon declared that King Henry in vain endeavored to substantiate, a brave and politic monarch lost his crown, life, and historic fame! Nay, it is a curious fact that Richard could not safely contradict the report of the princes' deaths when it broke out with the outbreak of civil war, because it would have been furnishing to the rebellion a justifying cause and a royal head, instead of a milksop whom he despised and felt certain to overthrow.

As it was, Richard left nothing undone to fortify his failing cause; he may be thought even to have overdone. He doubled his spies, enlisted fresh troops, erected fortifications, equipped fleets, twice had Richmond at his fingers' ends, twice saw Providence take his side in the dispersion of Richmond's fleet, the overthrow of Buckingham's force; then was utterly ruined by the general treason of his most trusted nobles and his not unnatural scorn of a pusillanimous rival. In vain did he strive to be just and generous, vigilant and charitable, politic and enterprising. The poor excuse for Buckingham's desertion, the refusal of the grant of Hereford, is refuted by a Harleian MS. recording that royal munificence; yet Buckingham, without any question, wove the net in which this lion fell; he seduced the very officers of the court; he invited Richmond over, assuring him of a popular uprising, which was proved to be a mere mockery by the miserable handful that rallied around him, until Richard fell at Bosworth. And after Buckingham's death, Richmond merely followed his plans, used the tools he had prepared, headed the conspiracy which this unmitigated traitor arranged, and profited more than Richard by his death, because he had not to fear an after-struggle with Buckingham's insatiable ambition, overweening pride, and unsurpassed popular power.

As one becomes familiar with the cotemporary statements, the fall of Richard seems nothing but the treachery which provoked his last outcry on the field of death. Even Catesby probably turned against him; his own Attorney-General invited the invaders into Wales with promise of aid; the Duke of Northumberland, whom Richard had covered over with honor, held his half of the army motionless while his royal benefactor was murdered before his eyes. Stanley was a snake in the grass in the next reign as well as this, and at last expiated his double treason too late upon the scaffold. Yet while the nobles went over to Richmond's side, the common people held back; only three thousand troops, perhaps personal retainers of their lords, united themselves to the two thousand Richmond hired abroad. It was any thing but a popular uprising against the jealous, hateful, bloody humpback of Shakspeare; it excuses the fatal precipitancy with which the King (instead of gathering his troops from the scattered fortifications) not only hurried on the battle, but, when the mine of treason began to explode beneath his feet on Bosworth field, refused to seek safety by flight, but heading a furious charge upon Richmond, threw his life magnificently away.

Even had he been guilty of the great crime which cost him his crown, his fate would have merited many a tear but for the unrivaled genius at defamation with which the master-dramatist did homage to the triumphant house of Lancaster. Lord Orford says, that it is evident the Tudors retained all their Lancastrian prejudices even in the reign of Elizabeth; and that Shakspeare's drama was patronized by her who liked to have her grandsire presented in so favorable a light as the deliverer of his native land from a bloody tyranny.

Even in taking the darkest view of his case, we find that other English sovereigns had sinned the same: Henry I. probably murdered the elder brother whom he robbed; Edward III. deposed his own father; Henry IV. cheated his nephew of the sceptre, and permitted his assassination; Shakspeare's own Elizabeth was not over-sisterly to Mary of Scotland; all around Richard, robbery, treason, violence, lust, murder, were like a swelling sea. Why was he thus singled out for the anathema of four centuries? Why was the naked corpse of one who fell fighting valiantly, thrown rudely on a horse's back? Why was his stone coffin degraded into a tavern-trough, and his remains tossed out no man knew where? Not merely that the Plantagenets never lifted their heads from the gory dust any more, so that their conquerors wrote the epitaph upon their tombs, and hired the annalists of their fame; but, still more, that the weak and assailed Henry required every excuse for his invasion and usurpation; and that the principal nobility of England wanted a hiding-place for the shame of their violated oaths, their monstrous perfidy, their cowardly abandonment in the hour of peril of one of the bravest leaders, wisest statesmen, and most liberal princes England ever knew.