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('Aifnii-K  AS  StmiTAMY  «r 
Frtim  llu*  jHirtraif  hv  Jtrfm  VV»>Ji.y  Jarvis  in  ihr 
of  the  Army,  \\\^lnn«nmf  U.  t*. 


JOHN  C. 
CALHOUN 


American  Portrait 


BY    MARGARET   L.    COFT 


"THE  UNION,  NEXT  TO  OUR  LIBERTY, 
MOST  DEAR." 


Illujtratttt 
ftfeettfibe  $»«*  Cambrtoge 

HOIKJI1TON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY  BOSTON 


COPYRXCHT,    19  SO,    BY    MARGARET    L,    CO  IT 

ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED  INCLUDING    TIIK   RIGHT   TO  REPRODUCE 
THIS    BOOK  OR   PARTS   THEREOF    IN    ANY    FORM 


CAM0RCDOX 

IN    TH« 


MITT      IN*  OTHER      AlSri> 


Acknowledgments 


FIRST,  I  want  to  express  my  gratitude  to  my  editors  at  Houghton  Mifflin 
Company,  Paul  Brooks,  Dorothy  de  Santillana,  Craig  Wylie,  and  Esther 
Forbes,  who  with  infinite  patience  and  understanding  have  worked  with 
me  on  this  book  through  the  years.  Special  thanks  are  also  due  Arthur  M. 
Schlesinger,  Junior,  of  Harvard,  who  read  American  Portrait  while  it  was 
still  in  manuscript,  and  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  enlightenment  on  ob- 
scure aspects  of  the  slavery  question,  and  on  the  modern  significance  of 
Calhoun  7s  philosophy.  I  have  accepted  without  material  alteration  his  in- 
terpretation of  Calhoun 's  state  of  mind  in  the  'Years  of  Decision'  (1837- 
38),  as  depicted  in  The  Age  of  Jackson.  Bernard  DeVoto  of  Cambridge 
also  read  this  book  in  its  original  eleven  hundred  pages  of  manuscript, 
and  is  responsible  for  pruning  of  much  surplus  material,  and  for  directing 
my  attention  to  the  significance  of  the  soil  depletion  in  the  Southern 
states  and  the  interrelationship  of  the  consequent  Western  expansionist 
and  abolitionist  movements. 

I  wish  to  thank  Little,  Brown  and  Company  for  permission  to  quote  from 
Claude  M.  Fuess'  Daniel  Webster,  two  volumes,  Boston,  1930;  Charles 
Scribners'  Sons  for  quotations  from  Margaret  Bayard  Smith's  The  First 
Forty  Years  of  Washington  Society,  Gaillard  Hunt,  editor,  New  York, 
1906;  E.  C.  McClurg  and  Company,  publishers  of  Eva  E.  Dye's  Me- 
Lougkttn  and  Old  Oregon,  Chicago,  1900;  John  Perry  Pritchett,  for  mate- 
rial quoted  from  his  Calhoun  and  His  Defense  of  the  South,  Pougbkeepsie, 
1935;  the  Chapel  Hill  Press  for  quotations  from  the  Reminiscences  of 
William  C.  Preston,  Minnie  Clare  Yarborough,  editor,  copyright,  1933,  by 
the  University  of  North  Carolina  Press,  and  especially  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons, 
for  quotations  from  The  American  Heresy  by  Christopher  Hollis,  copyright, 
1930,  by  Christopher  Hollis. 

The  search  for  the  essence  of  Calhoun  must,  of  course,  begin  in  his  own 
South  Carolina.  At  Clemson  Agricultural  College  his  great  mass  of  per- 
sonal papers  and  other  contemporary  material  were  made  available  to  me; 
and  I  wish  to  express  my  thanks  to  tt\e  librarian,  Miss  Cornelia  Graham, 
to  Professor  and  Mrs.  A.  G.  Holmes  and  Professor  Mark  Bradley  for  their 


VU1  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

assistance.  I  am  deeply  grateful  to  Mrs.  Francis  Calhoun,  who  nearly 
fifty  years  ago  wrote  down  her  personal  interviews  with  the  last  of  the 
Calhoun  slaves  at  Fort  Hill,  which  are  here  used  for  the  first  time. 

Help  has  also  come  from  other  members  of  the  Calhoun  family,  includ- 
ing anecdotes  and  reminiscences  from  the  last  grandson,  the  late  Patrick 
Calhoun  of  Pasadena,  California;  from  Miss  Lilian  Gold,  Flint,  Michigan; 
Mr.  John  C.  Calhoun,  Columbia,  South  Carolina;  and  Mr.  Louis  Symonds, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  C,  Calhoun  Symonds,  and  Miss  Eugenia  Frost,  all  of 
Charleston. 

Mr.  Alexander  S.  Salley,  Junior,  head  of  the  South  Carolina  Historical 
Commission,  gave  me  invaluable  help  in  unraveling  the  early  legislative 
proceedings  of  South  Carolina,  still  in  manuscript.  Others  assisting  me  in 
Columbia  were  Professor  Robert  L.  Meriwether  of  the  University  of  South 
Carolina  Faculty,  Miss  Elizabeth  Porcher  of  the  University  Library, 
Colonel  Fiu  Hugh  McMaster,  Mr.  J.  Gordon  McCabe,  and  Mr.  James  T. 
Gittman.  I  also  wish  to  thank  Miss  Virginia  Rugheimer  of  the  Library  of 
the  College  of  the  City  of  Charleston,  Miss  Ellen  FitzSimons,  librarian  of 
the  Charleston  Library  Society,  and  Miss  Kitty  Ravenel  and  Dr.  W.  W. 
Ball,  also  of  Charleston. 

In  Washington,  I).CM  I  am  under  obligation  to  Mr.  St.  George  L. 
Sioussat  of  the  Manuscript  Division  of  the  Library  of  Congress;  also  to 
Mr,  Thomas  P.  Martin  and  Miss  Elizabeth  McPherson;  and  to  Miss  Bess 
Gienn  of  the  National  Archives. 

I  am  deeply  grateful  to  Professor  Hollen  Farr,  curator  of  the  Yale 
Memorabilia  Room,  who  reconstructed  for  me  the  *Yale  College1  of  1804. 
Also  assisting  me  at  Yale  University  were  Miss  Anne  Pratt,  Professor 
Gerard  Jensen,  Mrs.  Sara  Jane  Powers,  Mr.  James  T.  Babb,  Mr,  C.  B, 
Tinker,  Professor  R,  D.  French,  and  Doctor  John  Charles  Schroeder,  head- 
master of  Calhoun  College. 

The  staffs  of  the  Public  Libraries  of  Boston,  Newburyport,  Haverhill, 
and  West  Newbury,  Massachusetts;  the  Boston  Athenaeum,  the  Library 
of  the  University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill  and  of  the  Woman's 
College  at  Greensboro,  North  Carolina,  have  all  been  generous  with  their 
assistance. 

The  following  individuals,  by  advice  or  information,  have  also  aided  in 
the  preparation  of  this  book:  Dr.  Clarence  Saunders  Brigham  and  Mr. 
Clifford  Shipton  of  the  American  Antiquarian  Society,  Worcester;  Mr. 
Louis  H.  Dielman,  former  librarian  of  the  Peabody  Institute,  Baltimore; 
Mr.  Gerald  Johnson,  Baltimore;  Mr.  Robert  Richards,  Memphis;  the  Hon- 
orable Thomas  Salley,  Qrangeburg,  South  Carolina;  Professor  Fletcher 
Green  and  Professor  Paul  Green,  Chapel  Hill,  North  Carolina;  Mr.  Theo- 
dore Morrison,  Cambridge,  Massachusetts;  Mr.  John  N.  Burk,  Boston; 
Mrs,  Ralph  Boas,  Norton,  Massachusetts;  Miss  Evelyn  Crosby,  Centerviile, 
Massachusetts;  Mr.  John  B.  Osgood,  Lawrence,  Massachusetts;  Mr. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  IX 

Robert  W.  Lull,  Newburyport,  Massachusetts;  Miss  Mildred  Gould  and  the 
late  J.  E.  Latham,  Greensboro,  North  Carolina;  Mr.  Cornelius  D.  Thomas, 
Junior,  New  Orleans;  Mrs.  Howard  F.  Dunn  and  Mrs.  Mildred  I.  Hal- 
lihan,  Litchfield,  Connecticut;  Mr.  Eugene  F.  Dow  and  Mr.  Fletcher 
Pratt,  New  York  City;  Mr,  and  Mrs.  Carl  Kuhlmann,  Riegelsville,  Penn- 
sylvania, and  Mr.  E.  Austin  Benner,  Haverhill. 

Finally,  I  wish  to  mention  two  of  my  professors  at  the  Woman's  Col- 
lege of  the  University  of  North  Carolina,  the  late  Benjamin  B.  Kendrick 
and  the  late  Alex  Mathews  Arnett,  whose  advice,  encouragement,  and 
understanding  enabled  me  to  write  this  book. 


Contents 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

I  THE  HERITAGE 

H  FOR  GOD  AND  TIMOTHY  DWIGHT 

in  YEARS  OF  GROWTH 

IV  THE   BIRTH   OF   A  PATRIOT 

V  OF  COURTS   AND   COURTING 

VI  THE  SECOND  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION 

VII  YOUNG  HERCULES 

VIII  TOWARD  A  BROADENING   UNION 

IX  MR.  SECRETARY  OF  WAR 

X  THE  MASTER  OF  DUMBARTON   OAKS 

XI  MR.  VICE-PRESIDENT  CALHOUN 

XII  A  UNIONIST  COMES  HOME 

XIII  PETTY  ARTS 

XIV  AMERICA  GROWS  UP 

XV  BLUE  COCKADES  AND  DUELING  PISTOLS 

XVI  FORCE  AND  COUNTER-FORCE 

^XVII  CALHOUN  AT  WAR 

XVin  THE  AGE  OF  JACKSON 

XIX  SLAVERY — THE  THEORY  AND  THE  FACT 

XX  PLOR1DE 

XXI  YEARS  OF  DECISION 

XXII  CALHOUN  AND  THE  LONE  STAR 

XXIII  THE    MASTER  OF  FORT   HILL 

XXIV  AMERICA   IN    MID-CENTURY 
XXV  A  NATION-SIZED  AMERICAN 

XXVI  THE  RISING  STORM 

XXVII  THE  STATESMAN  AND  THE  MAN 

XXVIII  NO  COMPROMISE  WITH  DESTINY 

XXIX  WHEN  ROME  SURVIVED 

XXX  MINORITY  CHAMPION 
NOTES 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 
INDEX 


vii 

1 

14 
32 
46 
56 
67 
82 
101 
120 
136 
160 
172 
192 
203 
222 
242 
259 
268 
284 
316 
326 
356 
382 
398 
421 
44S 
457 
467 
495 
518 
535 
573 
583* 


Illustrations 


vCALHOUN  AS  SECRETARY  OF  WAR 
A  POLITICAL  GAME  OF   BRAG 

(A  Cartoon  of  the  Campaign  of  1&32)  /ǣ*ȣ  #oj?e 

CALHOUN  m  MIDDLE  ACE 

HILL 

IK  HIS  LAST  YEARS  jaang  PVRC  480 


G. 


The  Heritage 


THE  YEAR  was  1782;  the  place,  Abbeville  on  the  South  Carolina  frontier. 
John  Caldwell  Calhoun  was  born  on  the  eighteenth  day  of  March  in  the 
first  frame  house  in  the  Long  Cane  country.  That  year  the  last  guns  of 
the  Revolution  sounded  along  the  mountain  borders.  That  year  a  son  was 
born  to  another  pioneer  and  soldier  in  a  cabin  on  the  New  Hampshire 
frontier,  a  region  rough  and  primitive  as  Abbeville.  His  name  was  Daniel 
Webster. 

At  first,  John's  world  was  small.  Tossing  on  a  quilt,  his  back  braced  to 
the  hard  planks  beneath,  he  could  lie  and  kick  for  hours.  Full  skirts 
brushed  across  the  floor;  faces,  black  and  white,  bent  over  him  and  van- 
ished; his  young  nose  quivered  to  the  scents  of  cornbread  and  frying 
pork;  his  ears  heard  the  thumping  of  the  churn  and  the  whirr  of  the 
spinning  wheel.  Near,  but  not  too  near,  orange  flames  licked  at  the  black 
hollow  of  the  fireplace,  and  on  cool  days  he  might  roll  closer,  sinking  his 
small  fists  into  the  heaps  of  fresh-picked  cotton  that  lay  drying  on  the 
hearth^  But  this  pleasure  was  brief — a  swift  slap  across  the  knuckles*  or 
the  hasty  substitution  of  a  gourd  filled  with  dried  peas,  suspended  in- 
vestigations. Cotton  was  not  for  baby  boys,  but  in  a  very  few  years  he 
and  his  younger  brother,  Patrick,  would  be  seated  before  that  same  fire- 
place, fingers  busily  searching  the  warm  cotton  for  the  seed,  of  which  they 
would  be  required  to  find  an  ounce  before  bedtime.1 

Slowly  the  horizon  widened.  The  baby  could  creep  about  the  kitchen, 
sinking  his  knees  into  the  softness  of  a  bearskin,  or  scraping  them  raw 
against  the  splintery  pine  flooring.  And  if  in  his  explorations  he  rammed  his 
head  against  a  table  with  the  usual  wailing  results,  it  is  safe  to  assume 
that  he  got  his  share  of  kissing  and  consolation. 

For  the  time  and  the  place  his  was  a  normal  but  solitary  boyhood. 
Cheerful,  it  could  not  have  been.  It  was  hard  growing  up  to  be  a  Puritan 
in  South  Carolina,3  Sin  was  a  dark  and  evil  thing  in  even  the  youngest 
heart— so  ran  the  tenets  of  that  stern  Calvinistic  faith  which  burned 
across  the  Southern  highlands  in  all  the  primitive  fury  with  which  it  had 
seared  New  England  a  century  earlier  or  still  smouldered  on  the  moors  of 
Scotland.  For  young  children  the  code  was  severe.  Strict  obedience.  No 


2  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

contradiction  of  parental  authority.  Honor  thy  father  and  mother.  Keep 
holy  the  Sabbath  day.  A  solitary  He  or  theft  was  *a  stain  for  life.7  s  Always 
they  must  hold  themselves  in  check,  try  to  make  something  of  themselves. 
Self-discipline  and  self-control  were  emphasized,  but  these  were  not  enough. 
When  the  flesh  weakened,  when  even  threats  of  hell-fire  failed,  the  4pear 
tree  sprouts/  found  in  the  corner  of  virtually  every  up-country  kitchen, 
spoke  a  language  not  even  the  youngest  child  could  fail  to  understand. 

Calhoun  understood  it.  'Life  is  a  struggle  against  evil/4  he  once  de- 
clared, and  would  believe  until  his  dying  day.  There  is  no  evidence  that 
by  the  standards  of  his  times  he  was  harshly  treated.  There  is  abundant 
evidence  of  his  love  for  his  family,  of  his  contentment,  if  not  happiness, 
in  his  mode  of  life.  Happiness  was  something  that  his  code  neither  ex- 
pected nor  sought,  but  he  had  a  keen  capacity  for  spiritual  as  well  as  for 
bodily  suffering,  and  his  overindulgence  of  his  own  children  would  indi- 
cate a  reaction  from  the  harsh  teachings  of  his  youth.  For  good  or  for 
evil,  this  Calvinism  stamped  his  character.  And  the  wonder  is  not  that  he 
was  as  narrow  as  he  was,  but  as  broa*»  that  he  could  see  not  only  sin  in 
man,  but  good;  that  he  could  condemztybut  also  pity. 

f  % 

2; 

He  was  his  father's  boy.  Around  the  Calhoun  fireside  the  old  wounds  of 
war  were  opened  once  more;  and  almost  with  their  mother's  milk,  the 
children  drank  in  the  tales  of  murders  and  marauding  partisan  bands, 
stories  that  festered  in  the  mind  bftiause  they  were  too  horrible  for  the 
history  books.*  Living  it  all  was  five-yfear-old  John,  his  mind  aflame,  his 
small  body  tight  clasped  between  his  father's  hard  knees,  the  firelight 
hot  on  his  face,  and  voices  'roughened  with  feeling'  thundering  in  his  earn. 
Out  of  John's  earliest  memories  faces  would  loom,  gaunt,  bearded;  eyes 
burning  in  the  darkness.  These  were  the  'rough  but  high-strung  men  who 
had  challenged  oppression/  in  Scotland,  in  Ireland,  and  in  their  new 
haven  across  the  .seas;  and  they  had  stories  to  tell—of  worship  in  the 
crude  log  meeting-houses  where  they  had  ridden  on  horseback  in  the  days 
before  the  Revolution,  muskets  slung  across  their  saddles.  Outside,  a 
guard  was  posted;  inside,  the  Bible  lay  open  before  the  preacher,  but  a 
powder-horn  had  swung  from  his  shoulder  and  a  gun  was  clenched  in  his 
hand6  Thus  had  the  forbears  of  the  Long  Cane  settlers  huddled  together 
on  the  moors,  their  horses  picketed  in  the  rear,  their  pikes,  swords,  and 
muskets  heaped  between  the  congregation  and  the  pulpit  where  the 
preacher  stood,  the  Book  in  one  hand  and  a  short  sword  in  the  other.  It 
had  been  'watch  and  ward*  in  the  Old  World;  it  was  'watch  and  ward'  in 
the  New,  danger  like  a  bridge  spanning  the  years. 
Young  John  heard  stories  of  that  winter  of  1780  when  the  whole 


I  THE  HERITAGE  3 

Carolina  hill-country  was  surrendered  to  the  British  forces — Patriot 
against  Tory,  Carolinian  against  Carolinian,  women  and  children  'slain 
in  cold  blood' 7  by  their  own  neighbors.  Death  had  walked  the  hills  .  .  . 
a  hushed  knock  against  a  doorway  .  .  .  broken  voices  in  the  night  and 
the  hard  breathing  of  hunted  men  ...  a  'Brown  Bess'  ...  a  few  shreds 
of  a  buckskin  jacket  or  a  broken  powder-horn  to  show  that  once  a  man  had 
lived  and  died  ...  the  entire  District  of  Ninety-Six*  under  siege.8 
Stories  of  Cowpens  and  Camden  and  King's  Mountain;  of  Francis  Marion, 
'the  Swamp  Fox,'  and  the  gay-faced  Quaker  boy,  Nathanael  Greene;  of 
John's  own  family,  his  old  Scottish  grandmother,  slaughtered  by  Indians 
in  the  grim  winter  of  1760;  of  the  uncle  who  fell  at  Cowpens  with  thirty 
saber  wounds,  and  of  the  uncle  who  rotted  in  a  hell-ship  off  St.  Augustine; 
of  that  Major  John  Caldwell,  fo  whom  he  had  been  named,  cut  down  by 
the  'Bloody  Scout'  in  his  own  ba  ard.° 

It  was  not  history  yet.  It  was  ;  near  and  too  real.  Nearby  at  Hope- 
well  stood  Treaty  Oak,  where  onl^  Jiree  years  after  John  was  born,  the 
tribes  had  gathered  for  a  ten-day  pudgy;  there  to  surrender,  to  a  Calhoun 
cousin,  General  Francis  Pickens,  teu,0s  west  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  encom- 
passing a  third  of  Georgia,  Ten*  *r,  and  Alabama.  And  there,  too,  had 
been  surrendered  and  returned  '  cousin,  Anna,  seized  in  the  Long 
Cane  Massacre,  twenty-five  years  ^ore. 

It  must  have  been  hard  for  Jol  10  see  in  his  aging  father,  the  surveyor 
and  county  judge,  one  of  the  wiliest  and  most  ruthless  Indian  fighters 
in  the  entire  Southern  back-country,  a  scout  who  only  a  few  years  before, 
had  headed  a  group  of  mount  Jj^  rangers,  patrolling  the  South  Carolina- 
Georgia  border  in  a  ceaseless  watch  f&  enemy  Indians. 

For  Patrick  Calhoun  was  a  figttu^lfee  whole  life  of  this  Scotch-Irish- 
man from  Donegal  was  a  battle,  political  or  military.  He  was  a  prayer 
and  a  killer,  and  he  could  kill  and  pray  with  equal  fervor,  even  with 
dedication.  Grim,  rough-hewn,  there  was  little  that  was  lovable  about  him. 
He  was  tough  in  mind  and  tough  in  body,  devoid  either  of  humor  or  of 
imagination.  He  was  stubborn  and  wrong-headed,  the  kind  of  man  who 
could  unfailingly  mistake  a  prejudice  for  a  conviction;10  but  hardened 
for  conflict  as  he  was,  he  was  the  ideal  leader  of  a  frontier  community-. 

Pat  Calhoun  had  grown  up  in  the  wilderness.  He  was  only  five  in  I?33 
when  his  family  stepped  off  a  dank  waterlogged  sailing  vessel  at  the  port 
of  Philadelphia.11  Along  the  borders  of  the  frontier  the  Calhouns  had 
moved,  to  the  drumbeat  of  Indian  warfare;  from  old  Fort  Duquesne  to 
the  valley  of  the  Shenandoah,  on  down  through  the  lush  farmlands  of 
Wythe  County,  Virginia,  to  the  Waxhaws  'where  the  Carolinas  meet/  and 
the  hunters  told  of  the  land  beyond  the  Catawba  where  the  buffalo  ran 
and  the  rich  black  soil  had  never  known  the  touch  of  a  plow/* 

*  Lt-Ra!  name  for  the  Long  Cane  section. 


4  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

In  1756  the  Calhouns  had  moved  once  more,  beyond  the  pine  barrens 
and  the  sand  hills  to  the  District  of  Ninety-Six,  the  Long  Cane  country, 
where  the  vast  brakes  grew  five  to  thirty  feet  in  height,  and  the  hills  were 
tangled  in  peavine,  high  as  a  horse's  back.  There,  on  the  right  bank  of  a 
stream,  Pat  Calhoun  framed  the  house  to  which  he  brought  his  third 
wife,  Martha  Caldwell,  in  1770,  and  where  his  five  children  were  born. 
And  there  in  the  wilderness  he  organized  a  church,  the  Long  Cane  congre- 
gation; and  for  a  generation,  with  his  few  neighbors,  held  off  attack 
from  the  Indian  frontier. 

He  had  survived  the  Long  Cane  Massacre  of  February,  1760,  and  re- 
turning to  bury  the  twenty  victims  had  looked  down  on  the  body  of  his 
brother,  James,  and  his  old  mother,  'most  inhumanly  butchered/  w  Aided 
by  only  thirteen  neighbors,  he  had  held  forty  Cherokees  at  bay  for  un- 
counted hours,  retreating  only  when  seven  of  his  comrades  had  been 
slain  and  twenty-three  Indians  lay  dead  on  the  ground." 

There  on  the  wall  hung  his  old  hat,  with  four  bullet  holes  through  the 
crown— memento  of  the  long  hours  when  he,  behind  a  log  and  a  chief 
behind  a  tree,  had  waited  to  kill  each  other.  Weary  of  shooting  at  the  hat, 
as  Calhoun  again  and  again  lifted  it  up  on  a  ramrod,  the  Indian  at  last 
peered  out.  instantly  Calhoun  shot  him  through  the  shoulder/* 

This  was  John's  heritage;  stories  of  Tory  atrocities,  of  Redskin  barbari- 
ties. Small  wonder  that  a  boy,  brought  up  on  these  tales  of  heroism  and 
suffering,  had  fibers  of  hitter  sternness  running  through  his  gentle  nature, 

And  always  at  the  fireside  was  talk  of  politics.  For  it  had  been  Pat 
Calhoun  who  had  led  the  battle  for  political  representation  for  the  Carolina 
up-country.  Nearly  half  the  population  of  the  state  was  scattered  through 
the  hills,  but  so  far  as  Charleston  was  concerned,  the  up-country  man  might 
have  lived  in  another  world.  Horse-thieves,  cattle  rustlers,  gunmen,  all  the 
riffraff  of  civilisation  swept  the  region  with  terror— in  orgies  of  pillaging, 
arson  and  rape—against  which  the  outraged  settlers  had  no  legal  redress 
at  all. 

So  before  the  assembled  dignitaries  of  the  Provincial  Assembly,  an  un- 
invited guest  named  Patrick  Calhaun  appeared  to  plead  for  courts, 
churches,  roads,  schools,  and,  ahnw  all,  far  political  representation.  His 
demands  went  unheeded,  And  in  17fi9,  his  cnonsktn  cap  on  his  head, 
his  rifle  over  his  shoulder,  Calhoun  led  his  neighbors  two  hundred  miles 
on  foot  down  to  the  voting  booths,  within  twenty-three  miles  of  Charleston. 
There,  at  the  point  of  the  gun,  they  seized  and  cast  their  ballots  and  voted 
their  leader  into  the  State  Legislature.111  The  battle  for  up-country  represen- 
tation was  over. 

With  Patrick  Calhoun,  as  later  with  his  son,  the  potential  success  of  a 
cause  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  its  abstract  merits.  Among  the 
gentlemen  from  St.  John  and  Prince  George  Parishes,  the  up-country 
legislator  distinguished  himself  by  bis  vote  against  adoption  of  the  Federal 


I  THE  HERITAGE  5 

Constitution,  on  the  ground  that  it  permitted  other  people  to  tax  South 
Carolinians,  which,  he  asserted,  was  taxation  without  representation.  While 
young  Daniel  Webster  was  puzzling  out  the  words  of  the  Constitution  of 
the  United  States,  written  on  a  general-store  pocket  handkerchief,  the 
five-year-old  Calhoun  heard  his  opinionated  father  denouncing  the  Con- 
stitution to  an  eager  audience  of  back-country  trappers  and  amateur 
politicians.17 

History  has  condemned  the  elder  Calhoun  for  bringing  his  child  up  on 
an  intellectual  diet  of  politics.  But  Patrick,  the  leading  citizen  in  a  com- 
munity where  gambling,  drinking,  hunting,  and  political  conversation 
were  the  only  recreation  from  the  drudgeries  of  farm  work,  had  little  time 
to  nourish  his  own  hair-splitting  mind.  He  had  learned  to  read  and  to 
write  with  some  difficulty;  he  had  somehow  taught  himself  the  business 
of  surveying.  What  books  there  were  in  the  Abbeville  district  he  had  read, 
and  sometimes  on  his  return  home  from  the  Legislature,  he  brought  with 
him  one  of  the  English  classics  for  which  he  had  developed  a  fondness. 
Whether  young  John,  the  third  of  his  four  sons,  had  access  to  these  vol- 
umes is  unknown.  It  is  probable  that  he  did.  For  it  is  known  that  by  the 
time  he  was  thirteen,  he  had  memorized  certain  significant  passages  in 
The  Rights  of  Man,  which  book  was  probably  a  background  for  his 
father's  sentiments. 

Yet  Patrick  was  content  to  have  his  four  sons  grow  up  as  he  had,  almost 
unlettered.  Hollis  has  written  of  John  Calhoun  that  his  mind  had  been 
stamped  into  its  pattern  for  life  before  it  was  touched  with  education.  John 
learned  to  reason  before  he  could  read,  and  lived  in  his  intellect  because  he 
had  no  library.18  Always  he  hated  the  bad  logic  of  half  education;  had  the 
narrow  but  deep  clarity  of  a  mind  trained  in  solitary  thought,  undiverted 
by  conflicting  theories  and  prejudices,  which  he  could  have  acquired  from 
too  early  and  too  generalized  an  education. 

From  his  father,  indeed,  John  Calhoun  did  inherit  a  set  of  prejudices, 
He  inherited  a  prejudice  against  lawyers,  but  he  reluctantly  became  one. 
He  inherited  a  prejudice  against  aristocrats,  but  he — not  at  all  reluctantly 
— married  one.  The  father  feared  and  distrusted  the  eastern  portion  of  his 
state;  the  son  would  fear  and  distrust  the  northern  portion  of  his  nation. 
But  John's  primary  legacy  from  his  father  was  a  sturdy-fibered,  inde- 
pendent mind,  unwilling  to  accept  anyone's  opinion  but  his  own,  arrived  at 
by  tortuous  self-analysis  and  mental  agitation.  Patrick  Calhoun  left  his  son 
the  blood  and  backbone  of  a  fighter,  who  would  spend  his  whole  life  sup- 
porting lost  causes,  unpopular  causes,  fighting  until  'within  two  weeks  of 
the  grave.  The  sturdy  old  pioneer  left  his  boy  a  rugged,  typically  Ameri- 
can, heritage. 

One  other  legacy  Patrick  Calhoun  bequeathed  to  his  more  famous  son, 
John  once  told  his  friend,  Duff  Green,  that  at  the  age  of  nine  he  remem- 
bered his  father  saying  that  the  best  government  was  that  which  allowed 


6  JOHN   C.  CAtHOUN 

the  individual  the  most  liberty,  'compatible  with  order  and  tranquillity/  *n 
and  that  the  objective  of  all  government  should  be  to  'throw  off  needless 
restraints.'  This  was  pure  Jeffersonian  doctrine.  Young  John  Calhoun  re- 
jected his  father's  distrust  of  the  Constitution  with  characteristic  inde- 
pendence, but  he  accepted  Jefferson  \s  American  principle.  He  carried  it  be- 
fore him  like  a  flag  throughout  his  life;  it  was  buried  with  him  in  his 
grave.  It  was  a  pioneer's  dream  of  America. 


The  year  1795  marked  a  turning  point  in  the  life  of  young  John  Cal- 
houn. It  was  the  year,  too,  when  he  knew  personal  loss*  the  desolation  that 
comes  when  those  closest  are  torn  away.  It  wan  the  year  when  he  studied 
his  first  books,  learning  then  what  a  great  and  undreamed-of  world  lay  in- 
side them,  So  far,  he  had  had  only  a  few  months  of  schooling.  When  he  was 
seven  or  eight,  he  had  trudged  several  miles  a  day  through  the  almost  un- 
settled frontier  country  to  a  log-cabin  school  at  Brewers,  the  same  kind  of 
school  that  Abraham  Lincoln  would  attend  thirty  years  later.*11  He  could 
read  and  write  his  name,  do  a  bit  of  figuring,  but  he  had  learned  nil  that  the 
school  had  to  teach  him;  and  his  education  might  have  ended  there,  had  it 
not  been  for  Moses  Waddei. 

Moses  Waddei  was  John's  brother-in-law.  A  young  'preaching  Irishman/ 
but  a  generation  removed  from  County  Down,  he  had  wandered  into  the 
up-country  two  years  before,  sickened  by  the  worldlint-ss  of  his  parishion- 
ers in  Charleston,  'the  rich,  the  rice,  ami  the  slaves,1  Hist  first  night  in  the 
Long  Cane  country  he  had  spent  with  the  Calhouns  and  before  their  fire- 
place had  been  struck  by  the  vivid,  .strongly  marked  features  and  tousled 
hair  of  a  shy  twelve-year-old,  John,  who  had  opened  a  door,  peered  5nt  rtml 
fled;  and  stirred  by  the  lovely  face  of  the  boy's  older  sister,  Catherine. 
That  night  Waddei  had  had  a  dream,  He  had  dreamed  that  he  had  mar- 
ried Catherine  Calhoun,  and  that  she  dice!  within  a  year.  Vet  the  next 
morning,  shaken  and  wondering,  he  had  known  that  at  least  the  first  part 
of  his  dream  must  come  true,71 

Wadde!  took  his  bride  to  Columbia  County,  Georgia,  where  he  opened 
a  law  school  and  academy.  Ha  was  only  too  glad  to  enroll  his  younger 
brother-in-law.  It  has  been  said  that  John  was  delighted  with  his  studies, 
but  be  had  scarcely  begun  when  his  sister  sickened  and  died.  Mose* 
Waddel's  dream  had  ended.  ^ 

Waddei  was  in  despair.  For  a  time  he  had  no  hetyiBycpminue  his 
school,  and  dismissing  the  pupils,  he  impulsively  set  M>  *JnP  itinerant 
preaching  tour  through  the  Georgia  wilderness.  It 

He  left  behind  his  grief-stricken  young  brolher-!n  law*  Jfcre  were  no 
neighbors;  the  great  forest-bound  plantation  was  deserted  for  days  at  a 


I  THE  HERITAGE  7 

time.  For  over  six  weeks  John  scarcely  saw  the  face  of  a  white  man  or 
woman.22  Finding  loneliness  at  an  early  age,  John  never  quite  escaped  it 
again. 

He  did  not  surrender  to  his  grief.  Boys  of  thirteen,  brought  up  as  he  had 
been,  with  few  necessities  and  no  comforts,  were  often  mature  enough  to 
be  left  to  their  own  devices.  John,  then  as  later,  was  vividly  conscious  of 
his  surroundings,  and  especially  sensitive  to  the  beauties  of  the  Southern 
countryside. 

The  northern  Georgia  county  of  Columbia  was  beautiful.  Here  black 
pines  stand  in  blurred  masses  against  the  hard  blue  sky,  one  now  and  then 
pointing  above  the  others  like  a  long  finger.  Here  great  shoulders  of  granite 
push  their  way  through  blood-red  slashes  of  clay,  the  red  clay  of  southern 
Virginia,  North  and  South  Carolina,  clay  prophetic  then,  reminiscent  now, 
of  that  scattered  American  blood  laid  waste  by  American  arms  on  Ameri- 
can soil.  But  in  1795  there  were  more  pine  and  sturdy,  close-growing  cedar 
instead  of  white  blankets  of  cotton  strewn  over  the  red  earth;  there  were 
the  gloom  and  the  loneliness  of  a  half-settled  frontier. 

John  had  no  time  to  be  lonely.  For  there  were  books  in  the  Waddel 
home,  and  in  books  the  boy  could  find  escape  from  more  sad  reality.  He 
took  to  the  library.  Almost  forgetting  to  eat  or  sleep,  he  consumed  Rollin's 
Ancient  History,  Robertson's  America  and  Charles  the  Fifth,  the  large 
edition  of  Cook's  Voyages,  Browne's  Essays,  and  a  volume  and  a  half  of 
John  Locke  on  The  Human  Understanding?* 

The  choice  of  books  was  limited,  theology,  of  course,  predominating; 
but  without  hesitation  John  had  unearthed  the  works  of  history  and  phi- 
losophy. His  luck  was  good:  Parton  has  called  Charles  the  Fifth  the  best 
book  ever  written  for  a  boy.2*  John  gained  a  knowledge  of  the  past  from 
the  histories  and  travel  books;  and  of  the  world  of  abstractions  from  the 
essays  of  Locke,  which  laid  solid  foundations  for  all  his  subsequent 
thought. 

Even  at  this  early  age  he  revealed  a  characteristic  mental  intemperance; 
he  read  with  such  indifference  to  rest  and  eyestrain  that  his  health  ga,ve 
way.  Lacking  any  supervision  that  he  would  respect,  he  rapidly  lost  color 
and  weight.  His  appearance  so  alarmed  Moses  Waddel  on  his  return  that 
he  notified  Mrs.  Calhoun,  who  immediately  sent  for  her  son*25 

John  would  have  been  glad  to  see  his  mother  again.  The  books  with 
which  he  had  grappled  so  fiercely  may  have  dulled  the  edges  of  his  pain, 
but  it  was  not  only  his  sister  that  he  mourned  now.  For  months,  old  Patrick 
had  been  troublH  with  'a  lingering  fever'  and  <a  bleeding  at  the  nose  .  .  . 
whir*  **rfc«"  vm  gradually.*  He  died  on  the  fifteenth  of  February, 
•iberculosis.3*  It  took  three  weeks  for  the  news  to  reach 

4*ed  a  relatively  prosperous  man.  Only  one  man  to  the 
utagbuorfcood  had  accumulated  more  than  the  thirty-one  Negroes  which 


8  JOHN    C.    CALHOUN 

the  census  of  1790  credited  to  Pat  Calhoun.  He  left  not  one  but  five  farms 
to  his  widow  and  four  sons;  riches  indeed  for  the  hill-country,  in  which 
the  old  wills  show  that  items  such  as  'one  pair  of  silver  knee  buckles/  *a 
horse  named  Tumbler,'  '1  pair  of  spoon  molds/  and  'two  pewter  plates/ 
or  'a  compact  little  farm  with  a  Negro  servant  named  Modesty/  repre- 
sented the  heights  of  luxury  attainable.  Needless  to  say  the  self-educated 
and  superbly  self-confident  Pat  would  not  have  instructed  his  survivors,  as 
did  one  up-countryman,  to  see  that  his  son  'received  a  good  English  edu- 
cation,' More  likely  his  final  wish  would  have  been  akin  to  that  of  the 
Anderson  County  farmer  who  willed  his  son  'a  bay  cold  [sic],  saddle  and 
bridle,  and  a  Rifle  gun,  and  if  he  stay  with  his  Mother  and  assist  in  sup- 
porting the  younger  Children/  2T  an  extra  share  of  the  profits  from  the 
plantation  and  the  grist  mill. 

Only  his  mother  and  his  younger  brother,  Patrick,  were  there  to  greet 
John  when  he  returned  home.  The  big  house  was  empty  now,  with  the 
echo  of  old  Pat's  restless  footsteps  stilled,  and  the  two  tall  brothers  gone 
their  own  way  into  the  world.  The  old  veterans  and  hunters,  the  story- 
tellers who  used  to  cluster  around  the  great  fire  came  no  more.  Outside, 
beyond  the  walls  of  the  house,  it  was  lonelier  still.  It  had  always  been 
lonely  up  in  the  hills,  and  now,  a  decade  and  a  half  after  Cornwallis's  de- 
feat, it  was  like  a  forgotten  corner  of  the  world.  The  men  who  had  broken 
the  wilderness  were  themselves  old  and  broken  now,  and  the  sons  who 
might  have  carried  on  the  work  of  their  fathers  slept  at  Camden,  Cowpens, 
or  under  the  blood-red  clay  of  King's  Mountain.  In  scattered  cabins  and 
small  hillside  farmhouses,  old  women  and  widowed  or  unwed  girls  lived 
solitary  lives,  walled  in  'by  the  bounds  of  self/ 28  speaking  the  crabbed 
speech  of  Elizabethan  England  or  the  Scottish  Highlands,  haunted  by 
fears  of  ghosts  and  witches. 

Down  in  the  village,  of  course,  a  certain  community  life  prevailed:  quilt- 
ing parties  and  husking  bees,  log-rolling  and  wrestling.  'The  youth  who 
could  pull  down  his  man  at  the  end  of  the  handstick,  throw  him  in  a 
wrestle,  or  outstrip  him  in  a  footrace'  could  be  sure  of  a  cheer  from  the 
older  men  and  'a  slap  on  the  shoulder  by  the  old  ladies.' 29  There  was 
plenty  of  hunting,  too,  for  the  Long  Cane  country  abounded  with  game, 
and  on  moonlit  nights  young  John  may  have  stirred  in  the  depths  of  his 
feather  bed  to  hear  the  mournful  echo  of  a  hound-pack  on  the  far-off  trail 
of  a  coon. 


In  the  world  outside,  George  Washington  was  ending  his  second  Presiden- 
tial term.  In  France,  mobs  that  had  fought  to  dip  their  fingers  in  the  blood 
of  Louis  XVI  were  'cannonaded  out  of  existence'  by  a  young  officer  named 


I  THE  HERITAGE  9 

Bonaparte.  The  'Terror'  that  had  ended  in  France  was  rising  in  Europe; 
in  Egypt,  at  the  naval  battle  in  Aboukir  Bay  at  the  mouth  of  the  Nile, 
the  genius  of  a  frail,  hollow-eyed  Vice-Admiral  of  the  King's  Navy,  not  yet 
forty,  had  destroyed  the  French  fleet,  and  in  England  the  name  of  Horatio 
Nelson  was  already  a  legend.  An  era  and  a  century  were  ending. 

Meanwhile,  young  John  Caldwell  was  living  the  arduous  and  withdrawn 
life  of  the  Southern  frontier.  Probably  none  of  our  American  statesmen, 
not  even  Abraham.Lincoln,  spent  his  formative  years  in  such  utter  solitude. 
While  Calhoun  was  growing  up  in  the  empty  Long  Cane  country,  young 
Daniel  Webster  was  struggling  with  Latin  and  table  manners  at  Phillips 
Exeter  Academy  in  New  Hampshire,  and  Henry  Clay  was  learning  the 
ways  of  men  and  the  wiles  of  women  at  the  race-tracks  and  dancing  as- 
semblies of  Lexington,  Kentucky.  But  what  the  South  Carolina  boy 
learned,  he  had  to  learn  for  himself,  slowly,  painfully,  with  infinite  groping 
and  self-questioning.  He  lived  entirely  within  himself,  was  thrown  back  al- 
ways on  his  own  resources  and  his  own  decisions.  By  temperament  the  stu- 
dent, his  character  was  far  more  that  'of  the  lonely,  thoughtful,  meditative 
boy  .  .  .  than  the  careless,  happy,  healthy  comrade  of  other  boys.' 80  A 
solitary  walk  through  the  woods  in  the  fall,  carrying  a  rifle;  a  hot  afternoon 
at  the  side  of  the  creek,  his  long  hands  tensed  on  the  rod,  and  the  Negro, 
Sawney,  asleep  at  his  side — moments  like  these  were  all  he  asked  of  happi- 
ness. Physically  he  was  'active  and  energetic';  he  'shot  and  angled  with 
skill'; 81  but  these  were  solitary  sports;  and  he  was  too  young  to  join  the 
farmers  of  the  neighborhood  in  political  discussions  at  the  polling  booths 
or  around  the  tavern  firesides.  There  was  no  time  for  visits  to  the  town 
or  rides  to  the  cabins  of  the  neighbors.  There  was  too  much  work  to  be 
done.  For  this  was  the  farming  South,  not  the  plantation  South;  there 
were  no  house-parties  or  barbecues;  the  horses  were  for  plowing,  not  for 
visiting;  and  wagons,  not  carriages,  stood  in  the  stables. 

For  John  Calhoun  childhood  was  already  over.  He  had  a  man's  burdens 
now,  and  he  bore  them  manfully.  The  institution  of  the  overseer  had  not 
yet  been  invented;  and  upon  his  and  his  mother's  shoulders  fell  the  re- 
sponsibility of  the  five  farms  and  all  the  Negroes.  Nor  was  mere  manage- 
ment all.  There  was  plenty  of  hard  physical  work  to  be  done,  and  of  this 
the  frail  boy  of  fourteen  did  his  full  share.  Not  yet  had  Southerners  dis- 
covered that  black  bodies  alone  were  able  to  endure  the  fierce  heat  of  the 
cotton  field.  Years  later,  John's  playmate,  Sawney,  basking  in  reflected 
glory,  would  gleefully  recall:  'We  worked  in  the  field,  and  many's  the  time 
in  the  brilin'  sun  me  and  Marse  John  has  plowed  together.' 82 

The  days  were  not  long  enough  for  all  that  had  to  be  done.  All  his  life, 
sleep  was  over  for  Calhoun  at  the  first  glow  of  dawn,  a  habit  which  can 
be  traced  back  to  his  farming  boyhood.  Out  of  bed  in  an  instant,  he  would 
pull  on  shirt,  breeches,  and  moccasins,  then  hurry  out  to  the  bam  where 
the  sheep  and  cattle  were  waiting.  Feeding  and  milking  over,  he  could 


10  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

walk  into  the  field,  gather  apples  or  melons  with  the  damp  chill  of  the 
night  still  on  them,  smell  the  clean  tang  oi  the  pennyroyal,  and  feel  the 
wet  weeds  along  the  footpaths  lashing  his  ankles.33  Breakfast  would  be  a 
hearty  meal:  ham  and  red  gravy,  fried  eggs,  grits,  and  milk  cool  from  the 
spring,  all  eaten  hastily  while  plans  for  the  day  worked  through  his  nimble 
brain.  There  might  be  oats  or  corn  to  be  tended,  wheat  to  be  harvested, 
with  the  whole  neighborhood  pitching  in;  peach  brandy  to  be  distilled  for 
their  entertainment,  fruit  to  be  picked,  or  stock  to  be  bred.  This  was  a 
subsistence  farm,  operated  for  its  owner's  livelihood,  not  for  a  landlord's 
profit.  Provision  crops  secured  the  first  attention;  market  crops  were 
secondary. 

Breakfast  over,  Calhoun  was  off  to  the  cotton  rows,  the  soft  earth  hot 
under  his  feet,  the  sun  blazing  upon  his  head,  and  the  linsey-woolsey  shirt 
heavy  and  wet  upon  his  bowed  shoulders.  Up  and  down,  up  and  down  the 
rows  he  moved,  setting  his  course  diagonally  from  one  curving  terrace  to 
another,  so  that  the  rough  brown  stalks  from  last  year's  crop  would  not 
scratch  the  legs  of  the  horses.  Sawney  would  be  close  behind,  dropping 
the  seed  into  the  hills  or  the  open  crests  of  the  ridges.84  Weeks  later,  the 
young  plants  would  appear,  thin  and  frail,  with  their  two  or  three  minute 
leaves,  and  then  were  the  aching  hours  of  thinning  them  out  to  clusters 
twelve  inches  apart  And  once  these  had  grown  beyond  the  danger  of 
cutworm,  the  young  sprouts  would  be  chopped  down  to  fertilize  the  one 
sturdy  plant  selected  for  survival. 

Next  came  the  hoeing  and  the  cultivating — the  'light  plowing/  John 
would  have  called  it — while  on  the  young  plants  the  small  buds  hardened 
and  swelled.  And  then,  at  last,  the  morning  when  the  flowers  were  the 
color  of  fresh  cream  on  the  cotton  stalks  and  by  noon  were  white  as  the 
clouds  floating  overhead.  Through  the  slow  hours  of  afternoon  the  tint 
would  change  to  the  most  delicate  and  softest  rose,  deepening  onward  hour 
by  hour,  almost  so  you  could  watch  it,  if  you  had  time  to  watch;  glowing 
from  pink  into  red  as  the  afternoon  was  lost  in  twilight,  and  from  red  to 
flame  in  the  quick  hot  blaze  of  the  Southern  sunset.  It  was  over  then;  the 
blossoms  tarnished  under  the  moonlight;  by  morning  the  fallen  petals 
would  lie  in  a  circle  around  each  plant.  The  beauty  was  gone,  but  for 
John  this  would  have  been  the  best  time  of  all;  for  where  the  blossoms 
had  been  were  round  balls,  turning  slowly  to  a  harsh  brown,  until  on  some 
hot  sleepy  day  the  fibers  would  yawn  apart  and  xhe  white  'locks'  of  the 
cotton  burst  forth,  ready  for  the  picking. 

All  these  things  Calhoun  knew  would  happen  as  surely  as  dark  came  at 
night  and  cold  in  the  autumn,  not  through  the  turn  of  the  hours  and  seasons 
alone,  but  from  the  aching  effort  of  his  body  and  the  workings  of  his  brain. 
He  knew  little,  but  what  he  did  know,  he  understood;  and  what  he  felt, 
he  felt  deeply.  Solitude  and  retirement  'had  intensified  all  his  impressions.' 
Now  and  then  the  restlessness  of  his  forbears  who  had  broken  the  wilder- 


I  THE  HERITAGE  11 

ness  trails  would  come  upon  him,  and  flung  down  upon  the  top  of  a  wind- 
swept hill  he  would  know  a  soaring  freedom.  He  knew  the  pure  unearthly 
feeling  of  the  early  morning;  the  depths  of  blue  shadows  streaked  along 
the  logs  of  the  barn  and  the  corn  crib;  the  deceptiveness  of  the  noontime 
shade  and  a  water  bucket  that  were  never  so  cool  as  they  looked  from  the 
cotton  row.  There  were  moments  when  he  could  give  himself  up  to  dream- 
ing, to  plumbing  the  depths  of  his  own  nature,  contemplating  rather  than 
working,  like  all  who  live  alone  and  within.35  He  could  rest  his  horse  and 
his  back  for  a  moment  and  scoop  up  one  of  those  tiny  cross-shaped  stones 
the  angels  had  dropped  when  they  brought  the  story  of  the  Crucifixion 
to  America;  or,  like  the  psalmist,  lift  his  eyes  to  the  hills.  He  was  con- 
tent. Knowing  no  life  other  than  the  one  into  which  he  had  been  born, 
taught  that  duty,  not  happiness,  was  the  chief  end  of  man,  he  was  only 
surprised  at  how  much  happiness  he  actually  found.  Perhaps  for  the  only 
time  in  his  life  he  was  at  peace  with  himself,  in  utter  harmony  with  the 
world  around  him.  He  loved  the  land,  not  with  any  mystic  idolatry,  but 
with  the  physical  love  of  a  man  who  has  worked  the  soil  with  his  own  hands 
and  found  it  good.  For  Calhoun,  the  love  of  the  land  was  fundamental.  It 
was  a  part  of  his  emotional  and  physical  being.  Everything  that  he  said 
or  did  in  later  life  can  be  traced  back  to  this  love  and  understanding  of 
the  earth  from  which  he  sprang.  To  him,  agriculture  was  not  a  means  to 
an  end,  but  a  life,  complete  and  satisfying  in  itself.  All  his  years,  even  at  the 
summit  of  his  fame,  he  would  find  his  greatest  happiness  in  the  few  months 
when  he  could  be  the  planter  that  he  had  always  wanted  to  be. 

He  was  a  born  farmer.  Several  years  after  this  period  he  is  said  to  have 
taken  charge  of  his  brother's  property,  'made  the  largest  crop  ever  made, 
and  saved  him  from  bankruptcy.' 36 

Much  of  his  proficiency,  however,  he  owed  to  his  mother.  Little,  pitifully 
little,  is  known  of  this  'tall,  stately'  mother  of  John  Calhoun.  She  is  said 
to  have  been  a  woman  of  some  'culture,'  and  hers  was  now  the  task  of 
tempering  the  rugged  heritage  Patrick  Calhoun  had  left  his  son.  Her  gentle 
influence  and  association  with  the  few  Huguenots  of  Abbeville,  whose  race 
was  to  become  a  synonym  for  'Southern  aristocracy,'  gave  Calhoun  the 
grace  of  manner,  the  aura  of  Old-World  courtliness,  intermingled  with 
frontier  reserve,  that  was  to  characterize  him  in  Washington  society.87 
Society,  too,  in  Calhoun's  youth  was  wont  to  trace  his  dark  Irish  beauty 
to  his  mother,  although  it  was  tempered  with  no  small  degree  of  the 
physical  and  mental  austerity,  inherited  from  old  Patrick. 

The  boy  inherited  more  than  grace  and  good  looks  from  his  mother.  She 
left  him  ardency  and  enthusiasm,  emotional  intensity,38  balanced  by  a 
shrewd  business  head,  unusual  in  a  woman,  but  essential  to  a  man  with  a 
plantation  to  direct,  to  say  nothing  of  the  affairs  of  government.  'She  was 
a  great  manager,'  wrote  a  contemporary,  and  in  teaching  her  son  the 
management  of  a  plantation  she  was  giving  him  more  than  even  he  knew. 


12  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

No  better  training  for  a  future  leader  of  men  could  have  been  devised.  'A 
well-governed  plantation  was  a  well-ordered  little  independent  state.'80 
There  was  a  whole  economy  to  be  controlled,  a  whole  community  to  be 
governed.  From  this  school,  before  the  rise  of  the  overseer  had  absorbed 
personal  responsibility,  rose  a  whole  generation  of  Southern  spokesmen  to 
whom  command,  duty,  and  personal  responsibility  were  as  automatic  as 
breathing. 

There  was  much  else  that  Martha  Caldwell  taught  her  son.  From  her  he 
learned  to  reverence  the  Bible  as  sacred,  and,  although  never  religious  in 
the  orthodox  sense,  he  was  always  devout.  She  taught  him  to  revere  God, 
to  honor  his  parents,  and  to  do  justice.  And  these  were  lessons  that  re- 
mained with  him,  just  as  his  father's  theories  of  government  became  a  part 
of  his  being. 

Furthermore,  she  was  a  good  listener.  During  the  long  hours  behind  the 
plow,  John  had  time  to  mull  over  the. ideas  that  he  had  gleaned  from  the 
books  in  Moses  WaddePs  library  and  to  make  them  a  part  of  his  own  fine- 
spun thinking.  He  had  absorbed  with  delight,  and  he  remembered  'an 
accumulation  of  facts  to  be  slowly  digested  into  mental  substance  during 
the  coming  years/  *°  More  and  more  he  was  thinking  for  himself,  and  what 
he  said  was  flavored  with  his  own  originality.  Already,  he  is  said  to  have 
become  something  of  a  conversationalist — with  his  mother  as  his  audience. 

Once,  in  all  these  years,  he  obtained  a  single  copy  of  a  newspaper.  There 
was  no  postoffice  in  Abbeville  then;  few  newspapers  ever  made  their  way 
to  the  up-country.  To  Calhoun  his  one  issue  of  the  South  Carolina  Gazette 
was  as  precious  as  a  book,  and  he  treasured  it  all  his  life.  It  was  his  first 
political  textbook,  and  his  faded  pencil  marks  still  remain,  underlining  an 
account  of  the  proceedings  of  Congress  for  April  1 1  and  13,  1798,  including 
a  debate  on  relations  with  France,  a  public  meeting  at  Charleston,  and 
an  address  by  President  John  Adams.41 

In  the  evening,  after  watering  and  feeding  the  stock,  locking  the  barn 
for  the  night,  and  hanging  the  keys  beside  the  fireplace,  the  lanky,  bushy- 
haired  boy  of  sixteen  lit  a  home-made  tallow  candle  and  studied  his  news- 
paper. There  is  no  evidence  that  he  had  developed  any  political  ambition. 
He  was  not  dissatisfied  with  his  lonely,  hard-working  life,  but  had  merely 
a  healthy  interest  in  those  scant  items  from  the  world  outside.  He  had 
pitifully  little  reading  material;  and  almost  as  difficult  as  getting  the  books 
to  read  would  have  been  finding  the  time  to  read  them.  But  Calhoun's 
ingenuity  was  successful.  A  contemporary  account  tells  of  a  farmer  who 
rode  by  the  Calhoun  lands,  and  there  saw  John,  hard  at  work  in  a  field, 
whistling  cheerfully,  with  a  book  'tied  to  the  plow/  *2 

Neighbors  in  the  tavern  now  had  something  to  talk  about  for  the  rest  of 
the  summer. -Books  and  education — these  were  not  matters  to  be  taken 
lightly.  Probably  most  boys  in  the  neighborhood  were  far  more  concerned 
over  the  next  coon  hunt  than  over  their  lack  of  schooling,  but  with  their 


I  THE  HERITAGE  13 

fathers  it  was  not  so.  Scant  as  education  was  in  the  hills,  to  those  unlettered 
but  ambitious  men  it  remained  the  highest  of  human  ideals.  If  not  for 
them  .  .  .  perhaps  for  their  children. 

Obviously,  Pat  Calhoun's  son  was  a  'young  man  of  worth  and  promise.* 
He  was  too  bright  and  quick  a  youth  to  be  a  farmer  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  He  'ought  to  be  educated.' 43 

The  neighborhood  clamor  at  first  left  Mrs.  Calhoun  unmoved.  She 
needed  her  son  on  the  farm.  But  'so  frequently  and  urgently'  was  'the 
feeling  of  the  people  .  .  .  pressed  upon  her'  that  at  last  in  the  summer  of 
1800  she  sent  for  her  two  older  sons. 

It  was  these  two  brothers,  shop  clerks  in  Augusta  and  Charleston,  wfio, 
as  instruments  of  Providence  or  of  history,  diverted  their  stubborn,  somber- 
eyed  younger  brother  from  his  peaceful  existence  to  the  rocky  road  of 
politics.  Had  not  James  and  William  returned  to  the  family  farms  while 
John  was  still  young  enough  for  formal  education,  he  might  have  only  been 
remembered  as  a  neighborhood  individualist. 

Already  he  had  become  set  in  his  habits  of  living.  This  was  no  child  that 
James  and  William  had  to  deal  with,  but  a  man  who  had  found  his  place  in 
the  world  and  was  content.  This  was  the  self-assured  master  of  the  planta- 
tion, his  lips,  above  a  square  cleft  chin,  set  with  a  firmness  startling  in  one 
so  young.  Tentatively,  the  two  brothers  approached  the  question.  Moses 
Waddel  had  reopened  his  school.  John  should  go  back  there  for  a  few 
months,  to  fit  him  to  practice  law. 

John  shook  his  head.  He  could  not  think  of  leaving  his  mother,  he  said, 
and  he  did  not  want  to  be  a  lawyer.  He  had  determined  to  be  a  planter; 
a  planter  he  would  remain.  To  convince  him  of  the  necessity  of  his  own 
education  was  even  more  difficult  than  winning  over  his  mother  had  been. 
But  his  brothers  persisted.  They  put  a  far  higher  estimate  upon  his  abilities 
than  he  did  himself. 

At  last  John  gave  way.  Yes,  if  his  mother  gave  her  free  consent,  he 
would  return  to  school.  But  hfe  would  not  be  contented  with  a  few  months. 
He  faced  the  family  council  with  an  ultimatum. 

'To  ...  a  partial  education  I  answer  decidedly,  no;  but  if  you  are 
willing  and  able  to  give  me  a  complete  education,  I  give  my  consent.' 

'What  is  your  idea  of  a  complete  education?' 

The  best  school,  college,  and  legal  education  to  be  had  in  the  United 
States,'  John  replied. 

'In  that  case  we  would  be  obliged  to  send  you  to  a  New  England  college 
and  maintain  you  there -for  several  years.' 

'True,  but  I  will  accept  nothing  less.' 

'How  long  will  you  require  for  the  accomplishment  of  such  an  educa- 
tion?' 

'About  seven  years.'  ** 

John  himself  chose  Yale  College. 


n 

For  God  and  Timothy  Dwight 


JOHN  C.  CALHOUN  was  graduated  at  the  age  of  twenty-two  from  Yale 
College  with  the  class  of  1804.  Although  he  had  entered  the  college  at  the 
start  of  his  junior  year,  transferring  from  Dr.  Waddel's  Academy,  he 
received  high  honors.  This  is  all  the  more  remarkable  when  it  is  remem- 
bered that  twenty-four  months  of  intensive  study  had  comprised  his  entire 
scholastic  preparation.  Despite  this  short  period  in  which  to  learn  the  work 
of  fourteen  years,  Calhoun  by  the  excellence  of  his  teaching  and  the  bril- 
liance of  his  mind  did  escape  that  specter  of  half  education  which  he  feared. 
He  was  graduated  from  Yale  a  man  better  educated  than  many  of  his 
classmates.  He  had  learned  to  study,  but,  more  important,  he  had  learned 

to  think.1? 

Although,  as  he  said  upon  his  entry  into  college,  he  was  fresh  from  the 
backwoods,'  he  had  attained  a  far  more  solid  scholastic  foundation  than  he 
himself  realized.  For  in  the  rural  South  of  his  day  there  was  no  better 
education  available  than  in  those  'log  colleges,'  like  Dr.  Waddel's,  where 
all  over  the  up-country,  young  Scotch-Irishmen,  safely  removed  from  the 
distractions  of  both  city  and  plantation  life,  were  memorizing  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  lines  of  Virgil,  Horace,  and  Cicero.  Even  on  Sundays 
there  was  no  rest  from  mental  and  spiritual  discipline,  as  the  stern-browed 
Calvinistic  schoolmasters  poured  their  grim  and  unbending  doctrine  into 
the  always  intense  and  sometimes  fanatical  minds  of  their  young  listeners.2 
And  the  results  were  good.  Orthodox  as  was  the  curriculum,  it  was  de- 
signed, not  so  much  to  impart  knowledge  as  to  develop  the  power  for  inde- 
pendent work  and  the  qualities  of  judgment  and  imagination.  Greek  and 
Roman  classics  were  stressed  because  of  their  wealth  of  general  principles 
which  could  be  applied  to  contemporary  ethics  and  politics,  the  two  mat- 
ters which  were  of  primary  concern  to  a  gentleman.  And  the  object  of  these 
schools  was  to  develop  gentlemen,  or,  at  least,  'good  men,  with  command 
over  themselves,'  men  of  the  world,  with  'spiritual  roots  in  their  own  com- 
munities.' 8 

There  was  a  rigorous  selection  of  talent  in  schools  like  the  Waddel 
Academy.  Intellectually,  it  was  not  democratic.  It  denied  that  all  men  were 
equal,  in  the  sense  that  the  unlettered  poor  white,  in  his  innate  judgment 


2 


II  FOR  GOD  AND  TIMOTHY  DWIGHT  15 

and  ability,  was  as  capable  of  ruling  as  a  Jefferson,  merely  because  he  had 
the  political  right  to  rule.  The  school  consciously  sought  for  and  aided 
those  whom  'Nature  had  endowed  with  genius';  and  with  Waddel,  at  least, 
students  like  Calhoun  couM  advance  as  fast  as  their  capacities  would  carry 
them.  No  brilliant  pupil  had  to  slow  his  pace  to  the  drudge.  Such  schools 
were  answers  to  Jefferson's  dream  that  the  poor  but  intelligent  child  could 
have  an  equal  opportunity  with  the  rich  and  lazy  one.  Calhoun  himself 
judged  Dr.  Waddel's  Academy  by  the  quality  of  leadership  it  provided, 
noting  such  examples  as  George  McDuffie,  James  Louis  Petigru,  Hugh 
Legare,  and  William  H.  Crawford.  Whatever  its  limitations,  'enough  teach- 
ing talent  was  available  to  give  us  a  Calhoun/  and  to  satisfy  the  cravings 
of  his  hungry  mind. 

Socially,  the  school  was  democratic  in  the  extreme.  Bucks  in  broadcloth 
might  arrive  to  scoff  at  the  cruder  country  youths  in  their  twilled  home- 
spun, yet,  only  a  few  years  later,  these  sons  of  small  farmers,  through  the 
vigor  of  their  intellects  and  the  strength  of  their  ambitions,  had  themselves 
entered  the  planter  class. 

Even  more  democratic  than  the  student  personnel  was  the  whole  mode 
of  life.  'The  Waddel  school  stressed  high  thinking,  hard  work,  and  plain 
living.'  If  minds  were  nourished,  bodies  were  another  matter.  Three  times 
a  day  fifteen  minutes  were  snatched  from  study  hours  for  that  pitifully 
inadequate  diet  of  cornbread  and  bacon,  upon  which  Northern  troops 
perished  in  the  Southern  prison  camps  of  the  eighteen-sixties.  In  primitive 
log  cabins,  lit  by  pine  torches  or  flickering  tapers,  the  boys  lived  in  groups, 
studying  from  sunrise  until  nine  o'clock  at  night.  A  horn  roused  them  at 
'first  dawn  streak/  and  after  breakfast  they  gathered  in  the  schoolroom 
for  prayer.  They  studied  in  the  woods,  each  in  his  own  chair,  with  his  name 
carved  on  the  back;  and  on  cold  days  obtained  heat  and  exercise  from 
chopping  trees  and  building  'log-heap  fires.'*  Though  not  under  the 
teacher's  eye,  they  studied  their  grammar  and  syntax,  their  Virgil  and 
Homer,  with  intensity.  A  hundred  and  fifty  memorized  lines  a  day  would 
be  the  quota  for  the  slower  pupils;  over  a  thousand,  for  the  brilliant  ones. 
There  were  no  organized  athletics  to  distract  their  interest  and  their  ener- 
gies; their  competitive  spirit  was  largely  satisfied  in  the  classrooms. 

Pent-up  energy  found  release  in  fighting,  and  overdisciplined  youths 
would  insert  long  burning  sticks  into  the  cabins,  applying  them  to  the  seat 
of  the  pantaloons  of  some  unlucky  victim.  On  Saturdays  a  certain  degree 
of  freedom  was  allowed,  the  older  boys  spending  the  night  'possum  and 
coon  hunting  or  shooting  squirrels  and  turkeys.  There  were  races  and 
games  of  'bull-pen';  and  it  is  known  that  Calhoun  'played  town  ball  .  .  . 
and  gathered  nuts'  with  the  others  and  joined  in  the  long  discussions  of 
the  books  that  had  been  read.  But  the  Friday  debating  dub,  which  to  some 
of  the  boys  was  the  high  spot  of  the  week,5  he  could  not  have  enjoyed.  He 
was  struggling  with  a  speech  impediment,  or  hesitancy,  which,  'added  to 


16  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

his  unusual  diffidence,  rendered  his  prospects  of  eminence  as  a  speaker 
quite  unflattering.' e  Probably  this  difficulty  lawered  his  self-esteem,  for 
until  he  entered  Yale  he  had  no  realization  of  his  superior  abilities.7 

It  would  have  been  hard,  too,  for  Calhoun  at  this  period  not  to  have 
given  way  to  discouragement.  The  greatest  sorrow  of  his  life,  thus  far,  had 
broken  over  him.  On  the  fourteenth  of  May,  1801,  he  went  home  for  a 
visit  and  found  that  his  mother  had  been  ill.  She  seemed  to  be  'in  no 
danger/  and  in  the  evening  he  returned  to  school.  The  next  day  the  news 
came  that  his  mother  was  dead.  It  was  well  into  September  before  he  was 
sufficiently  recovered  from  'a  severe  spell  of  the  fever/  with  which  he 
battled  throughout  the  summer,  to  write  the  tragic  news  to  a  friend.  'How 
can  I  express  my  feelings  when  it  was  announced  to  me?'  he  wrote.8  But 
he  owed  himself  a  reckoning,  himself  and  the  memory  of  the  mother  who 
had  believed  in  him.  He  resumed  his  studies.  There  was  nothing  left  to  do 
but  to  go  on.  ... 

Schools  of  the  kind  he  was  leaving  were  revolutionizing  Southern 
thought,  in  theology  and  politics  as  well  as  education.  It  is  not  at  all  re- 
markable that  Calhoun  and  the  leaders  of  his  generation  led  an  only  too 
willing  South  toward  the  ideal  of  a  Greek  Republic.0  Nor  is  it  remarkable 
that  Calhoun  himself,  for  all  his  underlying  gentleness,  could  never,  despite 
momentary  lapses,  entirely  escape  the  Puritan  heritage  of  his  youth.  He 
emerged  from  Waddel's  classroom,  disciplined,  controlled,  his  intellect 
broadened,  but  with  aljl  the  sterner  side  of  his  nature  intensified.  Under 
the  easy  manner  of  the  Southern  'gentleman/  the  'lean,  eager'  young  man 
who  entered  Yale  in  the  fall  of  1802  was  as  rigid  and  fatalistic  as  the  New 
England  Puritans  with  whom  he  was  thrown. 


The  Yale  College  that  Calhoun  knew  has  vanished  so  completely  in  the 
rebuilding  energies  of  a  hundred  years  that  it  is  now  useless  to  look  for  it. 
Of  that  mellowed  'Brick  Row'  under  the  elms,  which  to  Calhoun  would 
symbolize  Yale,  Connecticut  Hall  alone  remains.  And  even  it,  quaintly 
hip-roofed,  as  it  was  built  in  17 SO — engulfed  on  three  sides  by  the  grim 
brownstone  of  the  eighteen-eighties — is  very  different  from  the  square 
four-storied  structure  of  Calhoun's  day.  On  the  Green  three  steeples  reach 
into  clouds  that  still  hang  so  low  over  the  New  Haven  rooftops,  but  the 
stately  brick  churches  are  not  the  old  meeting-houses  where  Calhoun  sat, 
his  head  bowed  in  prayer;  and  successively  a  Greek  temple  and  a  frame 
'Gothic'  church  have  replaced  the  little  brick  State  House  where  'Old  Pope 
Dwight/  as  the  irreverent  secretly  called  him,  toasted  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
students  with  'rational  conviviality.' 
Only  the  street  names  are  the  same:  College,  fronting  the  Green,  the 


H  FOR  GOD  AND  TIMOTHY  DWIGHT  17 

cement  smooth  where  the  elms  once  stood;  Chapel,  to  the  right,  a  plaque 
marking  the  site  of  'Sally'  Sherman's  house;  and  parallel  to  College,  Old 
High,  now  sucked  into  the  campus  itself.  Today,  only  the  contours  of  the 
city,  the  huddle  of  shanties,  houses,  towers,  and  churches,  backed  up 
against  East  and  West  Rocks,  suggest  the  dim  outlines  of  Calhoun's  New 
Haven — a  country  village  of  sandy  streets  and  cows  grazing  on  the  Green.10 
But  to  a  boy  only  a  generation  removed  from  the  frontier,  the  little  town, 
with  its  rows  of  pre-Revolutionary  houses,  trim  behind  picket  fences,  must 
have  seemed  a  metropolis  indeed. 

That  he  roomed  in  the  dormitory,  we  know.  The  old  Treasurer's  account 
books  at  Yale  show  payment  of  his  'study  rent/ lx  and  in  this  he  was 
fortunate,  whether  he  had  to  share  quarters  with  one  roommate  or  two. 
For  Yale  was  growing  fast,  too  fast  to  house  her  flock,  which  had  spilled 
out  into  dwelling  houses  all  over  New  Haven,  charging  the  sedate  little 
town  with  their  infectious  vitality.  Whether  it  was  in  Old  Connecticut,  or 
the  'new'  Union  Hall,  where  Calhoun  first  lowered  his  trunk  onto  the  broad 
floor-boards  of  his  room,  has  long  been  forgotten.  But  Connecticut  set  the 
pattern  for  both,  with  its  long  hallways  running  from  front  to  rear,  its 
ninety-six  rooms,  ample  closets,  and  broad  open  fireplaces. 

From  small-paned  windows,  Calhoun  could  look  out  on  the  sights  of  New 
Haven;  and  if  he  was  on  the  first  floor,  in  summer  at  least  he  would  have 
become  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  'sounds  and  smells  of  the  town  as 
well.  For  the  windows  were  but  a  foot  from  the  ground — temptingly  near, 
as  the  monthly  bills  for  unconfessed  glass  breakages  show — and  in  all  but 
the  coldest  seasons  students  often  removed  the  casements  from  their 
frames.  So  the  breath  of  New  Haven  permeated  the  rooms  of  Yale:  the 
scent  of  the  sea  when  the  wind  was  fresh — strange  and  disturbing  to  a  hill- 
bora  Southerner — and  in  the  spring  the  heady  odors  of  fruit-blossoms  and 
cow-stables  could  only  make  the  homesickness  of  the  farm-bred  boys  all 
the  more  keen. 

Less  idyllic  were  the  sounds  of  New  Haven,  for  but  a  step  away  from 
the  College  were  grouped  the  jail,  the  poorhouse,  the  house  of  correction, 
and  the  insane  asylum;  and  thoughts  of  God  and  Life  Eternal  and  songs  of 
praise  in  the  College  chapel  were  broken  by  'moans,  cries,'  and  the  shrill 
screams  and  wild  laughter  of  the  insane.12  Not  even  in  their  own  world 
were  the  boys  free  from  the  vision  of  the  world  to  which  they,  without 
God's  help,  might  descend. 

Calhoun's  first  day  would  have  been  a  busy  one.  As  an  upperclassman, 
he  was  spared  the  grueling  oral  examination  by  the  tutors;  but  like  the 
more  lowly  freshmen,  he  had  to  present  'satisfactory  evidence  of  a  blame- 
less life.' 1S  Sometime  during  the  day  he  would  have  been  subjected  to  an 
interview  with  'Old  Pope  Dwight,'  but  this  would  have  been  more  terrify- 
ing in  prospect  than  in  reality.  Domineering  as  Dwight  was,  outside  of 
the  pulpit  his  smile  was  'irresistable,'  and  his  manner  'gentle/1*  although 


18  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

his  initial  scrutiny  of  a  new  student — black  eyes  piercing  through  shell- 
rimmed  lenses — was  disconcertingly  thorough. 

Calhoun  was  not  even  yet  a  part  of  Yale  College  until,  having  pocketed 
his  receipt  for  $30.60  of  'Tuition-money' 15  he  could  affix  his  signature  to 
the  1800  edition  of  The  Laws  of  Yale  College.™  Later,  he  would  learn  that 
this  formidable  list  of  'Thou  Shalt  Not's'  was  little  read  and  less  enforced, 
but  now,  in  the  serious  moment  of  college  entrance,  he,  who  had  virtually 
grown  up  with  a  gun  in  his  hand,  would  have  been  quick  to  note  that  no 
firearms  or  gunpowder  could  be  kept  in  the  rooms,  and  'If  any  Scholar 
shall  go  a-fishing  or  sailing  ...  he  may  be  fined  not  exceeding  thirty 
cents.'  For  restrictions  against  attending  'any  comedy  or  tragedy,'  playing 
billiards,  'or  any  other  unlawful  game  ...  for  a  wager,'  Calhoun  would 
have  cared  little;  college  for  him  was  'no  season  of  recreation.'  But  he  may 
have  paused  for  a  second  reading  of  the  more  serious  'Crimes  and  Mis- 
demeanors,' such  as  calling  'for  strong  drink  in  any  tavern,'  and  the  grim' 
warning  that  'Any  Scholar'  so  bold  as  to  'deny  the  Holy  Scriptures  .  .  . 
to  be  of  divine  authority  .  .  .  shall  be  dismissed.' 1T 


Tired  though  he  was  when  he  lay  in  bed,  the  breathing  of  his  roommate 
sounding  in  his  ears,  and  the  dying  firelight  throwing  dancing  patterns 
across  the  ceiling,  sleep  would  have  eluded  Calhoun.  Forebodings  nagged 
at  his  overactive  brain.  What  chance  had  he,  with  his  limping  Latin  and 
scant  Greek,  his  'limited'  educational  opportunities,  against  these  primed 
and  charging  young  graduates  of  Exeter  and  Andover,  these  boys  who 
knew  libraries  as  he  knew  a  cotton  field?  So  it  must  have  been  with  an 
extra-sized  chip  on  his  shoulder  that  he  entered  Josiah  Meigs's  mathe- 
matics class  the  next  morning. 

Gripping  his  slate,  Calhoun  sat  down  and  mechanically  scrawled  sev- 
eral 'arithmetical  questions'  which  the  professor  was  dictating.  He  bent 
over  his  work.  Surprise  swept  over  him.  Why,  this  was  'no  difficulty'  at 
all!  Instantly  he  solved  the  first  problem,  and  looking  up  was  surprised 
'to  find  the  others  busy  with  their  slates.'  Meigs  caught  his  eye.  'Have  you 
got  the  answer?' 

Calhoun  passed  him  his  slate.  'The  answer  proved  to  be  correct.'  Once 
again  he  bent  over  his  desk,  looked  up,  and  found  his  classmates  still  at 
work.  Again  he  passed  up  his  slate,  and  again  it  was  returned.  It  happened 
again  and  again.  'The  same  thing  happened  every  time.' 

Calhoun  was  gripped  with  excitement.  For  the  first  time,  the  thought 
crossed  his  mind  that  his  abilities  were  above  those  of  other  men.  He  was 
worth  the  money  that  his  brothers  were  spending  on  him.  He  could  justify 
his  family's  faith  in  him,  and  he  felt  'gratified.'  ** 


n  FOR  GOD  AND  TIMOTHY  DWIGHT  19 

Thus  assured,  Calhoun  swung  into  the  tempo  of  his  new  work.  \As  an 
upperclassman,  he  had  greater  freedom  than  the  overtasked  freshmen  and 
sophomores,  who  from  six  in  the  morning  until  ten  at  night  were  allowed 
but  two  hours  for  recreation.  Nevertheless,  he  too  would  have  been  kept 
'hard  at  worke.'19  Languages,  English,  grammar,  trigonometry,  naviga- 
tion, surveying,  'and  other  mathematics/  natural  philosophy  and  astron- 
omy were  the  subjects  prescribed  for  his  junior  year,  and  as  a  senior, 
'Rhetoric,  Ethics,  Logic,  Metaphysics,  history  of  Civil  Society  and  The- 
ology, 20  would  demand  his  attention.  Scientific  studies,  although  virtu- 
ally 'the  promised  land/ 21  to  Calhoun  were  so  new  in  the  curriculum  that 
they  were  not  even  listed  in  the  1800  program. 

No  record  of  Calhoun's  grades  has  been  preserved.  All  evidence — his 
place  in  the  college  graduating  exercises,  the  testimony  of  his  teacher, 
Benjamin  Silliman,  plus  his  addiction  to  study — indicates  that  he  was  a 
brilliant  student.  His  best  subjects,  according  to  an  early  biographer, 
were  'metaphysics,  mathematics,  and  the  precise  sciences. ' 22  History  and 
moral  philosophy  are  not  mentioned.  But  in  the  political  hydrophobia 
then  raging  at  Yale,  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  Dr.  Dwight  to 
have  judged  the  work  of  a  Jeffersonian  with  any  notable  impartiality. 


Calhoun  had  more  responsibilities  than  his  studies.  As  a  senior  he  had 
'to  inspect  the  manners  of  the  lower  classes  ...  to  instruct  them  ...  in 
graceful  and  decent  behavior'; 23  and  unwritten  custom  permitted  him  to 
'trim'  the  freshmen,  keeping  them  bowing  to  their  own  shadows,  although 
it  is  doubtful  if  he  wasted  much  time  on  such  amusements.  Fresh  from 
the  South,  however,  he  would  have  been  only  human  if  he  had  not  stolen 
a  few  moments'  extra  warmth  in  bed  on  zero  mornings  and  let  a  Yankee- 
born  freshman  light  his  fire  and  plow  through  the  unbroken  snow  to  the 
well  to  fill  his  pitcher  with  ice  water;  for  the  laws  of  Yale  required  that 
freshmen  run  errands  for  their  superiors,  if  not  'needless,  unreasonable,  or 
vexatious.'  ** 

It  is  unfortunate  that  we  know  so  little  of  Calhoun's  inner  life  at  Yale. 
From  the  diaries  of  teachers  and  students,  from  their  private  letters  and 
published  reminiscences,  we  can  indeed  piece  together  the  externals  of  his 
day-to-day  living.  We  can  see  him  jerked  from  sleep  into  the  black 
dawns,  the  chapel  bell  'howling  and  tumbling7  like  a  'noisy  demon' 25  in 
his  ears;  and  hear  the  crunch  of  his  footsteps  on  the  snow.  We  can  see 
him  in  the  chapel,  evenings  and  mornings,  knees  bent,  as  Dr.  Dwight  or 
one  of  the  tutors  read  'suitable'  Scripture,  or  exhorted  on  religious  and 
moral  subjects.26  We  can  see  him  in  the  half-hour  before  breakfast,  as 
some  boys  studied  and  some  played  backgammon  or  football  on  the 


20  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

Green,27  waking  himself  up  with  a  quick  walk  under  the  elms.  The  meals 
were  ample:  coffee,  chocolate,  and  hashed  meat  were  served  every  morn- 
ing; and  for  dinner,  roast  beef  and  steaks  were  served  twice  a  week,  oysters 
occasionally,  and  turkeys  and  geese  at  least  once  a  fortnight.  Calhoun,  who 
had  somehow  survived  the  Waddel  'hog  and  hominy'  had  not  been  so 
well  nourished  in  years.  For  Dwight  was  mindful  of  the  health  of  his 
students;  'exercise  and  activity'  were  his  indiscriminate  remedies  for  all 
boys  who  felt  themselves  'weak  and  tired/  28  The  Spartan  life  was  too 
much  for  the  frailer  boys,  however,  and  it  was  observed  that  'many,  while 
here,  lay  the  foundation  of  diseases  which  terminate  fatally.' 2D  Calhoun, 
hardened  from  his  years  in  the  field,  bore  up  well;  enjoying  what  was 
rare  with  him,  'almost  uninterrupted  health7  30  throughout  the  two  years. 

We  can  see  him  mulling  over  the  crabbed  old  books:  Distempers  of  Sea- 
Going  People,  Morris's  Ideal  World,  Pearce  on  The  Nature  of  Sin,  Con- 
templations on  Death  and  Immortality.  Only  by  courtesy  could  the  stark 
little  room  on  the  second  floor  of  the  chapel,  with  its  low  table  and  high- 
backed  armchair,  its  single  door  open  only  to  the  faculty  and  upper- 
classmen  with  money  to  rent  desired  books,  be  called  a  library,  al- 
though in  his  few  years  of  administration,  Dr.  Dwight  had  succeeded  in 
raising  the  number  of  volumes  from  two  thousand  to  five  thousand.  There 
was  enough,  however,  for  Calhoun's  hungry  intellect;  and  if  there  was 
more  of  Edwards  and  Mather  than  of  plays  and  poetry,  there  were  Locke 
and  Calvin,  Sophocles  and  Euripides,  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  Euclid, 
Adams  on  the  Constitution,  and  mathematical  works,  ranging  from  plain 
arithmetic  to  Marolois  on  Fortifications?* 

And  we  can  see  him  in  his  rare  moments  of  relaxation,  when  the  re- 
pressed students  would  cluster  in  one  of  the  rooms  secretly  to  'help 
despatch  ...  a  few  glasses  of  wine/  and  to  argue  fiercely  on  women, 
'politics  ...  the  corruption  of  ...  our  great  men,'  on  whether  minori- 
ties were  ever  justified  in  rebelling  against  majorities,  and  if  want  of  re- 
ligious principles  should  'exclude  a  man  from  public  life.' 82 

It  was  a  stirring  time  to  be  alive.  Calhoun,  bred  to  the  tradition  of 
hatred  for  the  British,  could  look  with  complacency  on  newspaper  fore- 
casts of  a  coming  French  invasion  which  would  'put  an  end  to  the  ex- 
istance  ...  of  Great  Britain,'  yet  could  heed  President  Jefferson's  words 
of  warning:  'We  have  seen  with  sincere  concern  the  flames  of  war  lighted 
up  again  in  Europe  .  .  .'  What  did  it  mean— a  humbled  Britain,  'Boney' 
astride  France,  astride  Europe,  astride  the  world?  And  in  America,  world 
events  echoed  in  the  Louisiana  Purchase  Treaty?  Did  New  England, 
quaking  lest  her  'balance  of  power'  be  overthrown,  deny  that  the  United 
States  had  authority  to  annex  more  territory?  John  Randolph,  Jefferson's 
brilliant  House  floor  leader,  had  an  answer.  'The  Constitution/  he  de- 
clared, 'did  not  describe  any  particular  boundary  beyond  which  the  United 
States  could  not  extend.' w 


FOR  GOD  AND   TIMOTHY  D WIGHT  21 


Yale  was  seething  with  life.  It  was  a  young  man's  school:  Dwight  himself 
was  only  fifty,  at  the  height  of  his  powers;  Benjamin  Silliman,  elected 
Professor  of  Chemistry  the  previous  year,  was  twenty-two,  and  Jeremiah 
Day,  Professor  of  Mathematics  and  Natural  Philosophy,  ngt  yet  thirty. 
The  bulk  of  the  teaching  fell  on  the  shoulders  of  the  tutors,  only  youngsters 
themselves,  and  fired  with  the  kind  of  zeal  that  led  one  to  comment  upon 
another:  'In  six  months  you  will  make  the  young  men  .  .  .  feel  that  a 
knowledge  of  Hebrew  is  as  essential  to  success  in  the  ministry  as  air  is 
necessary  to  animal  life/  ®* 

There  were  eight  tutors  when  Calhoun  arrived,  including  the  politically 
and  legally  minded  George  Hoadley,  later  to  serve  as  Mayor  both  of  New 
Haven  and  of  Cleveland,  Ohio;  and  Ebenezer  March,  whose  death  early 
in  1803  furnished  inspirational  material  for  the  entire  city  clergy.  Prog- 
ress jostled  reaction  at  Yale.  In  1801  had  come  the  Law  School,  with 
its  own  professor,  Elizur  Goodrich,  and  although  Silliman  could  still  carry 
the  entire  contents  of  the  mineralogical  cabinet  around  in  one  candle- 
box,  the  collection — and  collegiate  curiosity  about  it — was  growing  every 
day. 

Dwight  was  Yale  and  Yale  was  Dwight  in  the  year  1802.  Only 'five 
years  had  passed  since  the  burly  ex-soldier  of  the  Revolution  had  started 
to  draw  the  straggling  college  into  a  focus  in  which  the  outlines  of  the 
future  university  were  already  visible;  35  but  the  name  of  Timothy  Dwight 
was  already  as  strong  a  factor  in  bringing  Carolina  'gentlemen'  to  the- 
college  as  were  the  packet-boats,  which  ran  their  rum  cargoes  so  assiduously 
between  New  Haven  and  Charleston.  Timothy  Dwight,  hymn-writer,  reli- 
gious and  political  fanatic,  arrogant  and  incurable  Federalist,  was  a  man 
born  to  perform  miracles  and  to  move  mountains — and  he  had  need  of 
these  talents  at  Yale.  , 

Yale  had  been  a  gay  place  back  in  1797,  far  more  satisfying  to  the 
young  gentlemen  who  passed  their  study  hours  smoking,  drinking,  and 
enjoying  'sprightly  conversation/ 8e  than  to  their  Puritan  parents.  Dr. 
Dwight  had  found  himself  confronted  with  a  rebellious  and  even  roister- 
ing student  body,  who  at  best  contented  themselves  with  howling  down 
a  guest  speaker  at  chapel,  to  a  thunder  of  stamping  feet;  and  at  worst, 
danced,  gambled,  stored  liquor  in  their  rooms,  and  according  to  accusa- 
tion engaged  in  'the  violation  of  the  most  sacred  of  all  ties  between  men 
and  women.' 87  The  Age  of  Reason  had  arrived,  or  so  the  students  thought. 
Rules  were  on  the  books  and  so  were  the  Blue  Laws,  but  human  nature 
had  long  since  prevailed. 


22  JOHN  C,  CALHOUN 

By  1802,  the  year  Calhoun  arrived  at  Yale,  a  seeming  miracle  had 
been  worked.  Where  only  two  years  before  but  a  single  student  had  par- 
taken of  the  Lord's  Supper,  now  half  the  student  body  were  converted 
within  twelve  months'  time,  and  of  the  class  of  1802  'the  greater  part 
settled  down  in  quiet  country  parishes,  where  their  lives  glided  away  in 
.  .  .  peace.'  *  Now  the  students  of  Yale  spent  their  time  in  such  'stormy 
dark  debate*  as  they  hoped  'might  be  rare  for  the  sake  of  human  na- 
ture,' arguing  such  questions  as  'Is  a  Divine  Revelation  Necessary?'  or 
'Did  all  mankind  descend  from  Adam?'39  God  and  Timothy  Dwight  had 
done  their  work. 

But  youth  is  youth,  and  'human  nature  is  the  same  everywhere/  as 
Captain  Marryat  grimly  observed;  and  although  the  godly  Captain's  opin- 
ion may  be  exaggerated,  that  the  college  students  were  still  'in  the  secret 
practice  of  more  vice  than  is  to  be  found  in  any  other  establishment  of 
the  kind  in  the  Union,' 40  it  is  certain  that  even  God  and  Timothy  Dwight 
faced  difficulties  in  attempting  to  reverse  the  trends  of  the  times — the 
French  Revolution  and  the  'licentious  democracy  of  Thomas  Jefferson.' 

Dwight  stinted  no  efforts.  Culprits  were  invited  to  his  rooms,  and  for 
a  man  who  had  been  convinced  of  his  own  utter  depravity  at  the  age  of 
six,  it  was  no  great  task  to  break  down  the  most  hardened  of  eighteen- 
to  twenty-year-old  sinners,  and  to  send  them  away  in  tears.41  In  chapel, 
the  fiery  zealot  denounced  the  'grossness  and  immorality  of  the  theater,' 
defining  Shakespeare  as  'the  language  of  vice,'  and  warning  that  he  who 
visited  'the  strange  woman'  would  never  look  upon  the  face  of  God. 
'There  hath  no  temptation  befallen  you/  Dr.  Dwight  told  his  stricken- 
faced  sinners,  'except  what  is  common  to  all  men.'  ** 

Nor  did  Dwight  depend  upon  emotionalism  alone  to  win  his  converts. 
Already  a  legend  at  Yale  in  Calhoun's  time  was  the  story  of  the  new  young 
president,  confronting  a  class  of  scoffing  non-believers  with  the  question: 
'Is  the  Bible  the  Word  of  God?'  Written  and  verbal  refutations  were  in- 
vited, but  once  the  last  'proof  of  'the  hypothesis  of  God'  was  handed  in, 
Dwight  proceeded  to  take  the  case  for  his  maker,  tearing  apart  the  re- 
worked French  agnosticism  of  his  young  skeptics  as  easily  as  the  papers 
they  were  written  on.  From  then  on,  the  issue  was  decided:  God  was  no 
longer  a  subject  for  debate  at  Yale.  'Christianity  was  supported  by  au- 
thority, and  not  by  argument.' 4* 

Thus  was  formed  the  goal  of  education  at  Yale:  to  give  men  the  tools 
to  build  a  changing  world  upon  a  foundation  that  would  never  change. 
Not  facts,  whose  importance  dimmed  from  one  generation  to  the  next, 
but  the  use  of  facts;  not  how  to  make  a  living,  but  the  purpose  in  living, 
were  the  essentials.  Consciously,  Yale  was  training  men  for  leadership, 
both  in  theology  and  statecraft;  and  more  important  than  their  knowl- 
edge would  be  the  standards  upon  which  their  knowledge  was  built. 


FOR  GOD  AND   TIMOTHY  DWIGHT  23 


Calhoun's  class,  with  its  sixty-six  members,  was  one  of  the  largest  in  Yale 
history.  Traditionally,  almost  half  had  their  thoughts  turned  toward  a 
spiritual  career,  but  individualists  did  crop  out,  and  the  personnel  ran  all 
the  way  from  Ezra  Ely  who  had  'made  a  profession  of  religion  before  he 
was  fourteen,'  to  the  wild  young  Georgian,  Amos  Whitehead,  who  died 
'from  the  results  of  dissipation'  in  1808.44 

If  the  warmth  and  self-revelation  of  letters  written  in  later  life  is 
evidence,  Calhoun's  most  intimate  friend  among  his  classmates  was  a 
young  Scotch-Irish  South  Carolinian  named  James  MacBride.  Nor  was 
his  choice  surprising,  for  it  was  MacBride  of  whom  a  brilliant  South 
Carolina  scholar  later  said  he  was  one  of  the  two  men  in  Charleston, 
'whose  intercourse  ever  tended  to  keep  alive  the  languishing  flame  of  in- 
tellectual desire  in  my  breast.5  45  Now  doggedly  working  his  way  through 
the  medical  course,  MacBride's  interests  were  feverishly  intensive;  Cal- 
houn  once  complained  to  him:  'I  was  always  fond  of  your  pursuit,  the 
study  of  nature;  you  indifferent  to  mine.'  Yet  each  had  the  kind  of  clear, 
keen-edged  mind  the  other  could  appreciate,  and  their  friendship  lasted 
to  the  close  of  MacBride's  short  life.  Calhoun  could  talk  to  MacBride. 
He  could  let  his  barriers  down,  boast,  scoff,  condemn,  and  reveal  'in  strick 
confidence,'  his  secrets,  his  hopes,  and  his  'dispondency.'  clf  I  could  see 
you,'  he  once  wrote,  'I  could  fill  a  volume,  almost.'  ** 

With  only  two  of  his  other  classmates,  John  Felder  and  Micah  Sterling, 
both  later  members  of  Congress,  does  Calhoun  appear  to  have  continued 
any  close  friendship  after  college.  Both  were  brilliant;  Sterling  excelled  as 
speaker  and  writer,  and  Calhoun  had  high  regard  for  his  opinions.  Years 
later  we  find  him  writing:  'I  receive  with  unmixed  pleasure  the  approba- 
tion of  my  old  friend.'  When  Sterling  achieved  election  to  Congress,  Cal- 
houn immediately  sent  him  his  instructions.  'I  hope  that  you  will  quartet 
near  to  me,  and  that  you  will  make  my  house  as  familiar  as  your  own 
home.  ...  I  hope  my  namesake  is  growing  finely/  *7 

John  Felder  of  Orangeburg,  South  Carolina,  Calhoun's  only  rival  in  the 
mathematics  class,  was  a  lovable  eccentric,  of  whom  it  was  said:  'No  one 
could  look  so  earnestly  as  he.'  He  read  intensively,  but  hid  his  knowledge; 
temperamentally  and  politically  he  differed  from  Calhoun;  yet  their  friend- 
ship lasted  a  lifetime. 


Calhoun  'mixed  not  much  with  his  class.7  Never  able  to  give  himself 
easily  to  intimacies,  at  Yale  he  'indulged  his  propensity  to  solitude.'  He 


24  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

walked  alone  under  the  elms,  runs  a  highly  colored  account,  'his  head  among 
...  the  stars.'  * 

So  Yale  would  remember  him.  All  knew  of  him;  yet  few  really  knew 
him.  Men  remembered  his  tall  figure,  six  feet  two  inches  in  his  stocking 
feet;  and  his  mass  of  springy  dark  hair,  which  seemed  to  rear  almost 
erect  'when  the  fire  was  in  him/  carrying  his  stature  'to  an  almost  in- 
credible height.'  But  the  living,  human  man,  who  'ate  and  drank  like 
other  mortals/  49  who  argued  forbidden  politics  and  prepared  the  refresh- 
ments at  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  meetings,  is  lost  -in  the  mist  of  tradition. 
Almost  within  his  own  lifetime,  Calhoun  became  a  legend  at  Yale.  He  was 
a  towering  but  remote  figure  in  far-off  Washington,  a  giant  in  the  land, 
and  a  myth  to  the  college  that  he  had  attended  only  a  generation  before. 

The  impression  gathered  seems  fantastic,  but  there  is  really  nothing 
fantastic  about  it.  He  was  *a  man  among  boys.'  Actually  a  number  of  his 
classmates  were  his  own  age,  or  older,  but  in  mental  maturity  they  were 
years  behind  him.  He  had  grown  up  too  soon.  Facing  the  difficult  social 
adjustment  that  confronts  any  mature  student  of  a  background  different 
from  that  of  his  classmates,  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  kept  to  himself. 

Yet  he  was  capable  of  both  feeling  and  showing  affection.  Under- 
standably, his  closest  friends  included  the  young  professors  and  tutors, 
some  of  whom  were  only  two  or  three  years  his  seniors.  Among  these 
were  Benjamin  Silliman,  not  'the  great  Silliman'  then,  but  'a  fair  and 
portly  young  man/  with  thick  hair  clubbed  into  a  queue  and  a  perpetual 
blush  when  confronted  with  new  problems;  50  and  James  Kingsley,  tutor 
of  Latin  and  Greek,  dark,  classic-featured,  so  timid  .  .  .  that  he  could 
scarcely  .  .  .  look  a  scholar  in  the  face  .  .  .  yet  such  a  scholar  himself 
as  to  inspire  with  fear  all  who  came  to  recite/  The  keen  intelligence  of 
these  young  men  was  a  stimulus  to  Calhoun,  and  to  both  he  showed 
'feelings  of  warm  attachment.'  For  them,  Silliman  was  the  spokesman. 
'We,  in  turn,  esteemed  and  loved  him.' 51 

Already  Calhoun  was  showing  the  power  over  the  minds  and  imagina- 
tions of  men  younger  than  himself,  so  striking  in  his  mature  years.  It  is  a 
contemporary  account  that  speaks  of  Calhoun's  influence  over  classmates, 
who,  admiring  his  integrity  and  intellect,  'cultivated  his  friendship.' 52 

A  genuine  tribute  to  his  personal  appeal  was  accorded  in  his  election 
to  the  Alpha  Chapter  of  Phi  Beta  Kappa.  For  although  the  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  of  1803  demanded  high  standards  of  scholarship,  it  was  first  a 
social  fraternity.  It  had  its  ritual  and  secret  grip,  and  the  most  brilliant 
student  in  the  college,  lacking  the  required  standards  of  morality  and 
general  popularity,  might  fail  of  the  unanimous  vote  necessary  for  mem- 
bership. 

Calhoun  was  not  only  a  member,  but  one  of  the  leading  members.  Im- 
mediately after  his  initiation  on  July  11,  1803,  'Mr.  Calhoun  was  .  ,  . 
then  appointed  treasurer';  and  to  a  committee  to  'devise  ...  a  plan  for 


n  FOR  GOD  AND   TIMOTHY   DWIGHT  25 

raising  a  permanent  fund  for  the  benefit  of  indigent  Brethren  residing  at 
the  University.' M  In  addition,  he  had  to  prepare  his  part  in  the  debate 
for  the  next  meeting,  a  task  which,  in  view  of  his  intense  self-conscious- 
ness and  his  past  difficulties  at  Dr.  WaddePs  school,  must  have  caused 
him  no  little  strain.  Nevertheless,  on  July  25,  his  name  first  appears  on 
record  as  a  public  speaker,  as  with  three  of  his  fellow  members  he  dis- 
cussed the  question:  'Is  government  founded  on  the  Social  Compact?754 
In  December  he  took  the  floor  again,  this  time  on  the  question,  'Is  Lan- 
guage of  Divine  Origin?5  55  The  Alpha  Chapter  decided  that  it  was. 

Calhoun  enjoyed  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society.  Several  of  his  best 
friends  belonged,  including  MacBride  and  Felder,  as  well  as  the  Charles- 
ton contingent  of  students:  Jacob  Ton,  Amos  Northrup,  and  the  Gadsdens, 
Even  socially  Calhoun  played  an  active  part.  He  took  upon  himself  the 
most  difficult  of  all  tasks,  that  of  trying  to  find  a  speaker  for  an  oration 
on  June  18,  1804;  an  inconvenient  honor  that  he  himself  would  years 
later  politely  decline.56  He  assisted  with  the  anniversary  celebration  on 
December  10,  1803,  and  on  the  twentieth,  after  his  reelection  as  treasurer, 
marched  with  his  'brothers'  in  the  traditional  procession  to  the  brick  meet- 
ing-house on  the  Green,  where  an  'elegant  oration7  was  heard;  and  from 
there  to  the  State  House,  where,  with  Dwight  himself  as  toastmaster,  an. 
'excellent  entertainment* 67  was  enjoyed. 


8 

Socially  omnipotent  at  Yale  in  Calhoun's  day  were  the  'Literary'  societies, 
'Linonia'  and  'Brothers  in  Unity/  In  both  members  were  drawn  by  lot, 
and  in  Calhoun's  time  every  student  at  Yale  belonged  to  one  society  or 
the  other;  that  is,  every  student  but  John  C.  Calhoun. 

Just  what  happened  was  a  mystery  for  twenty-five  years,  as  Calhoun's 
fame  mounted,  and  both  societies  fought  for  the  honor  of  his  name.  Faint, 
but  dear,  Calhoun's  signature  does  appear  on  the  rolls  of  the  Linonian 
Society;  but  the  Brothers  in  Unity,  declaring  that  they  chad  from  himself 
assurances  of  his  undiminished  attachment  to  us,'  fortified  claims  by 
squeezing  in  a  palpable  forgery  of  the  great  man's  signature  between  a 
couple  of  neatly  spaced  names — and  in  the  record  book  for  the  wrong 
year!58 

By  1840  the  clamor  compelled  Calhoun  to  make  a  statement  that  'he 
was  not  a  member  of  either  of  the  Literary  Societies  ...  he  was  ap- 
pointed to  the  Linonian  Society.  Most  of  his  friends  (who  were  from 
the  South)  being  members  of  Brothers  in  Unity,  he  preferred  to  belong 
to  that  society:  but  the  rules  preventing  this,  he  attached  himself  to 
neither.'69 

One  might  expect  these  words  to  have  ended  the  controversy,  but  in 


26  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

1858  a  member  of  the  Linonian  Society  produced  a  sheet  of  yellowed 
paper,  written  in  a  cramped  nervous  hand,  almost  unmistakably  that  of 
Calhoun.  Addressed  to  his  mother,  in  September,  1802,  it  stated  that  he 
had  just  been  admitted  to  the  junior  class  and  had  joined  the  Linonian 
Society.  The  question  of  whether  Calhoun  would  have  written  a  letter 
to  a  mother,  already  dead  two  years,  did  not  seem  to  dampen  the  Lino- 
nian ardor.  Regretfully,  the  Brothers  in  Unity  conceded  their  claims*  Not 
until  years  later  was  it  discovered  that  in  1802  Yale  did  not  open  until 
October!  " 

So  far  as  Calhoun's  future  was  concerned,  it  might  have  been  better 
had  he  belonged  to  one  of  the  societies.  For  in  their  meetings  questions 
were  being  considered  that  would  have  deep  meanings  in  the  life  of  the  na- 
tion and  in  the  life  of  John  C.  Calhoun.  Such  liberality  of  thought  as 
could  be  tolerated  at  Timothy  Dwight's  Yale  was  rampant  in  the  Linonian 
Society,  which  Calhoun  had  so  casually  spurned.  Their  answer  was  yes 
to  the  question,  'Can  the  aggrandizement  of  a  neighboring  power,  by 
which  a  nation  fears  it  may  one  day  be  oppressed,  authorize  a  war  against 
him?'  It  is  easy  to  imagine  Calhoun's  interest  in  such  questions  as:  Would 
it  be  desirable  for  the  New  England  States  to  be  separated  from  the 
others?'  'Ought  the  president  to  be  endowed  with  power  to  remove  of- 
ficers of  government,  except  for  misdemeanor?' 61  Meanwhile,  over  at 
the  more  conservative  Brothers  in  Unity  the  problem,  'Is  it  politick  for 
the  United  States  to  encourage  manufactures?7  was  under  consideration.62 
But  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  members,  debating  always  under  the  eyes  and 
ears  of  faculty  members,  decided  that  a  division  of  the  Union  would  not 
be  'politick,'  agreed  that  infidels  should  be  excluded  from  public  affairs, 
that  property  should  be  a  necessary  qualification  for  voting,  and  that 
debtors  should  be  imprisoned  'at  the  mercy  of  the  creditor.' * 


Calhoun  did  not  depend  exclusively  on  Yale  Literary  Societies  for  his  social 
outlets.  He  had  good  times  that  fellow  students  in  the  predominantly  mas- 
culine world  of  Yale  must  have  envied.  For  there  was  Sarah  Sherman! 

It  was  but  a  step  across  Chapel  Street  from  Brick  Row  to  the  two-story 
Colonial  house  where  the  three  Sherman  sisters  lived.  Two  were  already 
spoken  for,  but  all  three— Martha,  Mehitabel,  and  Sarah— liked  'brilliant, 
devout,  and  public-spirited  young  men;'64  and  John  Calhoun  filled  these 
qualifications  admirably.  Furthermore,  he  was  a  'Carolina  gentleman/  and 
although  this  species  was  often  suspect  on  the  score  of  lax  morals  and 
caressing,  soft-edged  speech,  no  others  were  such  'gentlemen  of  style/ 
and  in  Connecticut,  at  least,  no  attention  was  too  much  for  visitors  from 
South  Carolina. 


H  FOR  GOD  AND  TIMOTHY  DWIGHT  27 

Calhoun  rapidly  became  very  intimate  in  the  home  of  Roger  Sherman's 
daughters.  In  later  years  he  would  always  inquire  'with  great  interest 
after  the  young  ladies  of  the  family.'  But  it  was  no  secret  that  it  was  the 
twenty-year-old  Sarah  for  whom  he  'had  a  special  liking.' 65  Whether  or  not 
she  was  one  of  those  legendary  women  of  New  Haven,  so  famous  for  their 
beauty,  contemporary  records  fail  to  say;  nor  is  there  any  indication  that 
Calhoun's  feeling  for  her  was  more  than  a  natural  enjoyment  of  apples 
and  tea  with  a  girl  in  the  candlelight,  or  walks  under  the  fruit  trees  when 
spring  was  in  flower.  Purpose  was  driving  Calhoun;  he  had  no  time  for 
romance. 

But  Sarah  may  have  felt  differently.  Evidence  hints  that  her  dark-eyed 
Carolina  visitor  may  have  .made  an  impression  upon  her  heart  not  easy  to 
erase.  At  any  rate,  she  was  well  past  thirty  when  she  married  the  scholarly, 
politically  ambitious  man  who  would  become  Congressman  Samuel  Hoar, 
and  by  then  she  was  quite  an  old  maid. 


10 

It  was  not  until  his  senior  year  that  Calhoun  came  directly  under 
Timothy  Dwight's  eye.  For  although  'father-confessor  to  all  of  his  student 
body,'  the  seniors  were  Dwight's  special  charge.  Nor  was  it  only  sermons 
and  textbooks  that  he  expounded;  manners  as  well  as  morals  held  sway 
in  his  discussions.  Seated  in  the  drafty  classroom  on  a  winter  morning, 
his  back  to  the  students  and  feet  within  an  inch  of  the  blaze,  Dwight's 
organ-like  voice  boomed  forth,  effortlessly  holding  the  attention  of  thirty 
or  forty  at  a  time.  Truth,  honor,  and  manliness  were  words  that  slipped 
freely  from  his  lips;  and  'To  be  always  a  gentleman/66  was  his  credo. 
He  advised  the  individual  always  to  discuss  the  subject  in  which  his 
companion  was  most  interested,  a  teaching  which  Calhoun's  admirers 
would  later  testify  that  he  followed  to  the  letter.  And  we  can  even  trace 
the  origin  of  Calhoun's  strenuous  physical  regime  to  Dwight's  lectures 
on  keeping  a  robust  body. 

These  were  incidentals.  Dwight's  doctrine,  as  such,  Calhoun  rejected 
without  equivocation.  Outwardly,  in  insignificant  matters,  he  conformed 
readily  enough,  but  in  the  things  that  mattered  he  was  a  rebel.  He  would 
neither  absorb  Yale  nor  let  himself  be  absorbed.  He  would  not  join  the 
Moral  Society.  He  would  not  join  the  Church  of  Christ.  He  would  not 
even  profess  Christianity!  Worst  of  all,  not  only  in  the  classroom  would 
he  refuse  to  accept  any  doctrines  whatsoever  'unless  he  could  imagine 
them  in  practical  operation  and  foresee  their  results,'  but  outside,  wherever 
he  was  and  whenever  he  got  a  chance,  he  'avowed  his  Republican  princi- 
ples in  an  atmosphere  where  the  very  name  of  Republican  was  odious.' 67 
His  heresies  were  not  held  against  him;  were,  no  doubt,  secretly  envied. 


28  JOHN   C.    CALHOUN 

But  his  friends  were  compelled  to  accept  him  on  his  own  terms;  and  might 
concede,  like  the  troubled  Silliman,  that  John  was  'a  first-rate  young  man 
...  for  pure  and  gentlemanly  conduct  .  .  .  but  that  his  mind  was  of 
a  peculiar  structure,  and  his  views  also  were  often  peculiar.'  ^ 

Not  even  Dr.  Dwight  could  instill  the  fear  of  hell-fire  and  damnation 
in  the  young  Southerner,  who  had  already  a  thoroughly  developed  faculty 
for  absorbing  only  such  material  as  coincided  with  his  own  preconceived 
opinions.  Dwight's  failure  to  achieve  conversion  might  have  been  expected 
to  anger  the  dogmatic  Puritan;  for  to  him  indifference  was  worse  than 
'direct  opposition.'  But  no  one  who  looked  twice  into  Calhoun's  intense 
face  and  deep  eyes  would  have  accused  him  of  indifference — to  religion 
or  anything  else.  He  was  merely  going  through  a  period  of  rebelliousness 
and  skepticism  normal  to  his  years  and  to  an  intellect  'so  independent  of 
authority.'  Yet  all  unconsciously,  the  Puritanism  then  rampant  at  Yale 
left  its  mark.  It  fitted  Calhoun's  own  temperament,  his  own  Calvinistic 
heritage.  He  could  never  escape  it  entirely.  It  would  be  years  before  he 
could  free  himself  from  the  conviction  that  dancing,  that  the  theater,  that 
actual  happiness  in  work  or  in  play,  were  all  to  be  classified  as  sin. 

At  this  period,  however,  politics  were  uppermost  in  his  mind.  Dwight  had 
a  grasp  of  fundamentals,  and  questions  thrashed  out  in  his  classroom 
would  later  be  fought  out  on  the  battlefields.  'The  people  of  the  Southern 
States,5  Dwight  would  remark,  'suppose  their  interests  to  be  different  from 
ours.  .  .  .  The  Southern  States  clash  with  the  Northern  and  Western,  and 
the  question  is  whether  a  division  should  be  made  in  the  country,  that  each 
portion  may  pursue  its  own  course.7  °° 

Secession  was  Timothy  Dwight's  answer.  And  there  were  other  ques- 
tions: Foreign  immigration?  Union  or  disunion?  Ought  the  poor  to  be 
supported  by  law?  In  discussions  such  as  these,  even  Dwight,  bitter 
Federalist  that  he  was,  could  stimulate  Calhoun's  love  of  politics  and 
government 

This  is  not  to  say  that  John  learned  much  from  Dr.  Dwight,  unless 
testing  the  strength  of  one's  own  opinions  against  a  strong  antagonist  can 
be  called  learning.  Dwight's  disunionist  theories  Calhoun  may  have  heeded 
somewhat,  because  of  the  distrust  of  the  Union  already  sown  in  his  mind 
by  his  own  father.  His  reason  for  suspicion,  however,  was  very  different 
from  Dr.  Dwight's;  the  opinionated  Federalist  hated  the  Union  because 
it  gave  too  much  power  to  the  people;  Calhoun  distrusted  the  Union  be- 
cause he  thought  it  was  not  fulfilling  its  original  purpose,  to  give  liberty 
to  the  people. 

John  Calhoun  knew  the  answer  the  day  when  Dwight  confronted  his 
Moral  Philosophy  class  with  the  question,  'What  is  the  legitimate  source 
of  power?'  John  knew  what  Dr.  Dwight  expected  him  to  say.  Stretching 
himself  erect,  the  indignant  fires  of  old  Pat  Calhoun  ablaze  in  his  eyes, 
he  answered  defiantly,  'The  people.' 


n  FOR  GOD  AND   TIMOTHY  DWIGHT  29 

The  Moral  Philosophy  class  was  probably  no  more  startled  by  this 
response  than  Dr.  Dwight  himself.  But  it  interested  the  teacher  to  have 
his  fundamental  tenets  challenged  by  a  young  frontiersman  with  the 
accents  of  the  Deep  South  on  his  lips  and  the  democratic  heresies  of  the 
Jeffersonians  in  his  mind.  Sharply,  Dwight  threw  forward  an  assertion; 
Calhoun  denied  it,  not  only  with  emotional  heat,  but  with  cold  logic. 
Dwight  became  more  interested,  led  the  Carolinian  on,  and  heard  an 
exposition  of  Patrick  Calhoun's  theories  on  government,  interspersed  with 
a  smattering  of  Locke  and  Paine. 

The  forgotten  class  in  Moral  Philosophy  listened  with  a  growing  con- 
sciousness of  the  abilities  of  their  classmate  and  perhaps  a  reluctant  ad- 
miration for  his  foolhardy  courage  which  dared  praise  Dwight's  bitterest 
political  enemy,  Thomas  Jefferson. 

At  dinner  time  the  class  adjourned,  leaving  Dr.  Timothy  Dwight  in  a 
state  of  mingled  emotions.  Unconvinced  himself,  he  realized  that  the 
stubborn  Carolinian  was  equally  unconvinced,  and  that  his  dogmatic  asser- 
tions were  braced  with  keen  logic.  Suddenly  Dwight  discovered  that  he 
admired  young  John  Calhoun  for  standing  so  staunchly  by  his  Republican 
principles.  In  fact,  he  went  so  far  as  to  say  to  a  friend  that  Calhoun 
had  ability  enough  'to  be  President  of  the  United  States/  and  that  he 
would  not  be  'surprised  to  see  him  one  day  occupy  that  office.' 7<> 

Eventually  this  prediction  found  its  way  back  to  Calhoun.  There  is  no 
way  of  telling  what  this  revelation  may  have  wrought  in  the  depths  of  his 
introspective  mind.  He  took  it  with  perfect  seriousness;  'he  took  everything 
seriously.'  He  was  never  able  to  forget  it,  never  able  to  understand  why 
having  the  ability  for  the  office  did  not  automatically  mean  that  he  should 
attain  it.  Certainly  now  he  realized,  more  acutely  than  even  on  that  first 
day  in  the  mathematics  class,  that  his  natural  abilities  might,  with  edu- 
cation, carve  a  far  deeper  niche  in  life  than  the  mere  practice  of  law  would 
ever  do.  Perhaps  then  he  realized  how  far  even  a  poor  farm  boy  might 
aspire  under  a  democratic  government.  His  commencement  address  in- 
dicated that  he  did:  it  was  entitled  'The  Qualifications  Necessary  to  Make 
a  Statesman.' n  John  Calhoun  with  the  shrewd  bright  eyes  and  stubborn 
set  to  his  mouth  had  begun  to  dream,  to  plan,  and  to  wonder. 

Momentarily,  it  must  be  admitted,  he  became  something  of  a  prig.  He 
threw  himself  into  his  work  with  a  startling  intensity;  awakened  ambi- 
tion was  driving  him  like  a  goad.  Already  he  was  beginning  to  develop 
those  powers  of  intense  concentration  which  were  to  mark  him  through 
life.  Now,  whenever  he  went  for  a  walk  or  a  ride  alone,  he  made  it  a 
point  to  fasten  his  mind  upon  some  one  subject  and,  whatever  the  dis- 
traction, not  permit  his  attention  to  break  from  its  self-imposed  walls. 

This  program  was  not  lost  upon  his  fellow  students.  Calhoun  snapped 
back  at  their  ridicule,  declaring  that  he  was  compelled  to  study  so  hard  'in 
order  that  he  might  acquit  himself  creditably  when  he  should  become  a 


30  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

member  of  Congress!'  'I  would  leave  College  this  very  day,'  he  declared, 
'if  I  doubted  my  ability  to  reach  Congress  within  three  years.7  72 

A  hint  of  how  the  Carolinian  impressed  his  classmates  during  this  period 
is  revealed  in  the  campaign  song,  popular  in  the  eighteen- forties: 

'John  C.  Calhoun,  my  Jo,  John, 
When  first  we  were  acquaint 
You  were  my  chum  at  Yale,  John — 
And  something  of  a  saint. 
And  Dr.  Dwight,  God  bless  him,  John, 
Predicted  as  you  know 
You'd  be  the  Nation's  President, 
John  C.  Calhoun,  my  Jo.' 73 


11 

Three  months  more.  Calhoun's  time  was  more  crowded  than  ever  now,  and 
yet  he  must  have  stolen  moments  in  that  summer  of  1804  to  scan  the  finely 
printed  columns  of  the  New  Haven  Herald  or  Register.  These  were  strange, 
tense  days,  with  old  empires  dying  and  new  ones  not  yet  born;  with 
Boney  fitting  out  his  flat-bottomed  landing  craft  for  the  invasion  of  Eng- 
land, and  England  fighting  back  with  words  instead  of  guns.  'The  zeal 
which  has  been  displayed  by  the  people  of  England,' 73  declared  Fox  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  'will  ever  be  inseparable  from  the  breast  of  Eng- 
lishmen, that  of  a  determined  resolution  to  resist  the  menaces  of  a  foreign 
enemy.' 7* 

At  Calais  gunboats  tugged  restlessly  at  their  moorings.  Those  same 
revolutionists  who  had  once  shouted  of  liberty,  fraternity,  and  equality 
ducked  knees  before  a  self-styled  Emperor,  who  spoke  not  of  liberty  but 
of  glory;  not  of  fraternity  but  of  conquest.  It  was  indeed  a  confusing 
world,  and  that  Calhoun  could  have  been  indifferent  to  the  events  overseas 
is  impossible  to  imagine. 

Meanwhile,  with  his  college  days  all  but  over,  Calhoun  still  had  tre- 
mendous gaps  remaining  in  his  education.  He  had  a  simple,  logical  com- 
mand of  the  English  language,  but  no  literary  polish  whatsoever.  Strangely 
enough,  his  speeches  read  better  today  than  those  of  his  great  rivals, 
Webster  and  Clay,  simply  because  of  his  bare,  austere  language. 

Calhoun  had  no  time  for  'little  things.7  He  did  not  strive  for  grace  or 
style  in  either  his  speech  or  writing,  but  concentrated  on  developing  the 
reasoning  powers  of  his  mind.  So  successful  was  he  in  this  attempt  that  his 
lean  language  became  a  reflection  of  the  Grecian  Parity  of  his  thought. 
He  believed  in  language  for  what  it  could  do  rather  than  for  what  it  was; 
and  this  belief  later  became  the  core  of  his  political  philosophy. 


n  FOR  GOD  AND   TIMOTHY   DWIGHT  31 

He  learned  his  Greek  and  Latin,  but  the  most  that  could  be  said  for  his 
spelling  was  that  it  was  a  dubious  improvement  upon  the  English  lan- 
guage, and  his  tense,  spindling  handwriting  was  conspicuously  illegible. 
Later,  he  would  write  discourses  on  government  that  became  a  part  of 
the  political  philosophy  of  America,  but  his  idea  of  punctuation  was  to 
insert  a  comma  at  the  end  of  every  phrase.  Yet  by  sheer  force  of  will- 
power and  natural  abilities  he  had  won  his  struggle,  and  at  the  close  of 
his  senior  year  he  stood  where  he  had  wanted  to  stand,  in  the  top  rank 
of  his  graduating  class. 

Calhoun  had  been  happy  at  Yale.  He  never  regretted  his  choice.  Scat- 
tered through  the  manuscript  collections  at  the  University  today  are 
numerous  gracious  notes  from  Calhoun,  all  revealing  his  'affectionate  re- 
gard'75 for  his  alma  mater.  'I  have  every  reason  to  feel  the  strongest 
gratitude  to  Yale  College,  and  shall  always  rejoice  in  her  prosperity,' 7ft 
he  wrote  Silliman  in  1818.  A  check  for  a  hundred  dollars  that  he  mailed  in 
1824,  he  regretted  fell  'much  short'  of  his  inclination,  as  he  had  suffered 
severe  losses  in  a  fire.  However,  'as  one  of  her  sons,3  should  Yale  fail  to 
raise  the  funds  needed,  he  would  Very  cheerfully  T7  increase  his  contribu- 
tion, 'I  consider  it  as  one  of  the  fortunate  incidents  of  my  life/  he  wrote 
in  1826,  'that  early  inclination  led  me  to  Yale.' 7S 


ni 

Years  of  Growth 


JOHN  CALHOUN  never  delivered  the  oration  on  The  Qualifications  Neces- 
sary to  Make  a  Statesman,'  which  he  had  prepared  so  carefully.  The 
months  of  concentrated  study  had  taxed  his  strength,  and  in  August,  1804, 
he  came  down  with  'a  serious  illness  which  .  ,  .  well  nigh  put  an  end'  to 
his  life.  By  the  end  of  the  month  he  thought  himself  improved,  but  at 
commencement  on  September  12,  he  was  'so  low'  that  he  could  take  no 
part  in  'either  the  pleasures  or  the  exercises  of  the  day.'  Throughout  his 
life,  even  if  Calhoun  felt  the  desire  for  physical  excesses,  he  never  had 
the  health  to  indulge  in  them.  The  fierce  energies  of  his  mind  sapped  his 
strength,  leaving  him  only  enough  for  the  performance,  of  what  he  con- 
sidered his  duties. 

Just  what  Calhoun  had  planned  to  do  that  fall  is  uncertain.  Had  he  not 
then  met  the  widow  of  his  late  cousin,  John  Ewing  Colhoun,  he  might 
never  have  gained  the  friendship  of  an  extraordinary  woman,  whose  in- 
fluence made  him  acceptable  to  Charleston  society — and  to  Charleston 
voters.  She  had  done  as  much  for  her  husband,  himself  a  frontiersman, 
who  had  won  a  seat  in  the  United  States  Senate  before  his  death  in  1802, 
His  strong-minded  Huguenot  widow  did  not  even  call  herself  Calhoun, 
but  Colhoun,  which  was  closer  to  the  old  Scottish  Colquhoun.  Every  sum- 
mer, with  her  three  children,  John,  James,  and  Floride,  she  made  the 
long  trip  from  Charleston  to  Newport,  Rhode  Island,  in  a  luxurious  family 
coach,  drawn  by  four  gray  horses,  and  topped  by  a  British  coachman  in 
full  livery. 

Relatives  eight  hundred  miles  from  home  were  rare  in  those  days,  and 
Mrs.  Colhoun,  hearing  of  the  South  Carolina  cousin  ill  at  Yale,  impul- 
sively wrote,  urging  him  to  complete  his  recovery  at  Newport. 

Late  in  September,  John  arrived  at  his  cousin's,  where  he  slowly  re- 
gained his  strength.  In  the  early  eighteen-hundreds  Newport  was  an  out- 
of-the-way  sort  of  place,  lingering  wistfully  in  the  twilight  of  pre-Revolu- 
tionary  glories,  when  it  had  been  a  great  port  and  one  of  the  most  fash- 
ionable of  summer  resorts.  The  old  mansion  houses  still  stood;  and  the 
beaches  were  as  hard  and  wind-swept  and  the  churning  waves  as  white 
as  in  the  past,  but  Newport  was  stranded  in  a  gulf  between  two  eras  of 
time. 


HI  YEARS  OF   GROWTH  33 

Nevertheless,  wealthy  and  fashionable  Southerners  still  congregated 
there,  and  Calhoun  looked  upon  his  surroundings  with  wary  disapproval. 
To  a  friend,  he  wrote:  'Newport  is  quite  a  pleasant  place,  but  it  has 
rather  an  old  appearance  which  gives  it  a  somewhat  melancholy  aspect. 
I  have  found/  declared  the  dogmatic  youngster  out  of  the  vast  experience 
of  two  years  in  New  Haven  and  two  weeks  in  Rhode  Island,  'no  part  of 
New  England  more  agreeable  than  the  island  of  Rhode  Island.  .  .  .  But 
as  to  its  manners,  customs,  moral  and  religious  character,  it  seems  much 
inferior  ...  to  every  other  part  of  New  England/  *  The  verdict  had  been 
delivered. 

The  wealth  and  living  standards  of  his  Huguenot  cousins  did  not  arouse 
Calhoun's  envy.  He  made  no  pretenses  of  being  anything  but  what  he 
was.  Large-boned  and  shaggy-haired,  he  looked  a  'typical  Ulsterman'; 
yet  there  was  dignity  and  some  grace  in  his  demeanor.2  His  mouth  was 
too  large  for  classical  standards,  but  the  thin  lips  were  startlingly  sensitive 
and  the  deep-set  eyes  had  a  searching  intensity.  Young  as  he  was,  he  had 
presence  which  could  focus  the  attention  of  an  entire  room. 

Here  in  Newport,  for  the  first  time  he  mingled  with  an  aristocratic, 
cultivated  society  and  betrayed  no  sense  of  inferiority.  His  letters  show  that 
he  thoroughly  enjoyed  himself.  He  made  friends.  The  training  that  his 
mother  had  given  him,  the  shy  yet  charming  grace  of  his  manners,  eased 
his  way  and  captivated  Mrs.  Colhoun. 

Into  her  family  circle  Calhoun  fitted  as  easily  as  if  he  had  always  be- 
longed there.  Almost  automatically  he  assumed  the  position  of  the  older 
brother,  the  man  of  the  household.  He  shouldered  some  of  the  responsi- 
bilities of  the  children's  rearing,  agreed  with  their  mother  that  Newport 
was  'not  a  very  fit  place  for  boys  of  the  age  of  James  and  John/  and 
offered  intelligent  suggestions  on  their  schooling.  He  listened  to  them  read 
the  Bible.  To  him  it  was  'not  ...  a  duty,  but  a  delight  to  pay  them 
particular  attention/  for  he  loved  children,  and  with  them  even  a  linger- 
ing boyishness  in  his  nature  came  into  play.  He  could  not  resist  teasing 
his  young  cousins  occasionally,  and  the  seven-year-old  was  infuriated  when 

John  promised  him  that  the  next  time  he  wrote  a  certain  'Miss /  he 

would  not  forget  'to  request  a^kiss  for  James.'  Apparently  this  cousinly 
attention  was  received  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  offered,  for  it  was 
four  months  later  that  John  was  writing  Mrs.  Colhoun:  'I  dare  say  James 
has  forgot  his  jealousy  and  will  be  glad  to  see  me.' 8 

Upon  the  entire  Colhoun  family  John  lavished  all  the  pent-up  fondness 
of  a  warm  and  family-loving  nature.  He  was,  in  fact,  starved  for  affection. 
Scotch  clannishness  was  embedded  in  his  nature;  'all  the  weavings  and 
interweavings  of  kin' 4  held  him  closely.  And  Mrs.  Colhoun  responded  to 
his  need.  She  could  understand  a  man  like  Calhoun  because  she  had  mar- 
ried one.  She  had  felt  the  power  in  him,  and  she  sensed  the  latent  strength 
in  this  young  cousin  of  his.  She  had  the  gift,  common  among  Southern 


34  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

women  of  her  generation,  of  being  able  to  talk  well  on  subjects  that  in- 
terested men,  and  John  found  that  he  could  talk  to  her  as  he  could  to 
no  one  else.  Perhaps  he  never  had  a  closer  friend  than  Mrs.  Floride  Bon- 
neau  Colhoun,  and  from  association  with  her  he  became  an  early  and 
ardent  believer  in  the  equality  of  the  sexes. 

She  gave  him  more  than  affection  and  understanding.  She  brought  a 
softening  influence  into  his  life;  kept  an  anxious  eye  on  his  health,  his  in- 
terests, and  his  moods.  Her  interest  was  genuine,  for  he  had  won  her  heart 
almost  as  if  he  had  been  one  of  her  own  children.  Whether  she  already 
had  designs  upon  him  as  a  son-in-law  it  is  impossible  to  say;  if  she  had, 
she  was  sensible  enough  to  wait  and  let  the  young  people  discover  their 
love  through  constant  association.5 

Family  legend  contends  that  at  first  Calhoun's  unfulfilled  romantic 
longings  came  near  centering  upon  Mrs.  Colhoun  herself,  which  a  hint 
here  and  there  in  his  letters  would  substantiate.6  For  her  part  she  firmly 
established  herself  on  a  maternal  plane,  which  her  ardent  protege  soon 
realized.  'From  my  first  acquaintance  with  you  at  Newport/  he  wrote  in 
later  years,  'I  have  loved  you  as  a  mother.  Sure  am  I,  that,  I  would  not 
from  a  mother  experience  more  kindness  and  tender  affection.  .  .  .  Never 
shall  I  be  able  to  make  you  suitable  return.' T 


At  the  season's  end  Calhoun  returned  home.  Though  he  had  had  no  formal 
legal  training,  he  seems  to  have  spent  the  winter  practicing  law  in  Chancel- 
lor Bowie's  office  in  Abbeville.  A  record  <of  the  judgment  of  the  Court,' 
now  at  Yale,  shows  that  on  the  fourth  Monday  in  March,  1805,  John 
Calhoun  appeared  at  the  Edgefield  County  Courthouse  as  attorney  for 
one  John  Brooks  versus  Wiley  Kemp  in  a  debt  claim  amounting  to  $253.76. 
Attorney  Calhoun  received  a  fee  of  $24.40.8 

In  April  there  was  a  stir  in  the  little  village.  A  coach  and  four  rattled 
through  the  dusty  main  street;  Mrs.  Colhoun  had  arrived  to  take  John 
to  Newport  once  more,  before  he  entered  the  Litchfield,  Connecticut,  Law 
School  in  the  fall. 

At  Charlottesville,  Virginia,  Calhoun  left  the  coach.  His  walk  was  long. 
By  a  crude  bridge  he  crossed  'a  wild  and  romantic  little  river,'  foaming 
irom  the  floods  of  spring.  Ahead,  the  slope  mounted  steeply,  but  breath- 
less a  few  minutes  later  he  gained  the  summit.  On  all  sides  stretched  a 
sixty-mile  tangle  of  woodland,  fresh  in  new  green,  scattered  strippings 
of  plowed  fields,  and  to  the  west  the  blue  lift  and  rise  of  the  moun- 
tains. Before  him  was  an  expanse  of  lawn  bordered  with  shade  trees  and 
a  brick  house  with  a  dome  and  a  small  Roman  portico  with  gracious 
wings  and  French  doors— the  most  beautiful  house  that  Calhoun  had 
ever  seen. 


Ill  YEARS  OF  GROWTH  35 

Family  legend  tells  us  that  he  had  persuaded  Mrs.  Colhoun  to  divert 
her  route  that  he  might  visit  Thomas  Jefferson  at  Monticello.*  And  there 
is  no  greater  proof  of  the  simplicity  of  American  democracy  in  those 
early  days  than  an  unknown  young  frontier  American  walking  up  to  the 
door  of  Monticello,  seeking  and  winning  an  audience  with  the  President. 
Jefferson's  bedtime  was  nine  o'clock,  but  that  night  he  sat  up  until  past 
twelve,  talking  to  his  strange  visitor.  He  insisted  then  on  keeping  John 
with  him  overnight  and  on  giving  him  breakfast  in  the  morning. 

They  were  much  alike,  Thomas  Jefferson  and  John  Calhoun,  both 
democrats  and  both  slaveholders,  both  believers  in  state  rather  than  na- 
tional control  of  the  slavery  problem.  They  were  alike  in  their  intellectu- 
ality, their  simplicity  of  manner,  and  in  their  very  nerves.  One  was  young 
and  the  other  was  old,  but  each  had  a  grip  on  fundamentals.  Each  was 
by  instinct  close  to  the  soil,  each  convinced  that  only  as  America  recog- 
nized her  dependence  upon  the  soil  could  her  way  of  life  be  healthy. 
Future  history  of  an  industrialized  scientific  America  might  prove  both 
bad  prophets,  but  not  necessarily  false  leaders. 

What  words,  what  insights  into  the  meaning  and  destiny  of  America 
passed  between  those  two  men  during  the  late  April  night  is  regrettably 
lost  to  history.  Their  understanding  seems  to  have  been  complete.  The 
family  tradition  is  that  President  Jefferson,  the  next  morning,  saw  Mrs. 
Colhoun  in  Charlottesville  and  spoke  about  the  young  man  'in  a  manner 
quite  gratifying  to  her.'  Even  more  reliable  is  the  testimony  of  Phila- 
delphia's Richard  Rush,  who  knew  well  both  Calhoun  and  Jefferson. 
'Jefferson  loved  him,' 9  Rush  declared.  As  for  Calhoun  himself,  all  his  life 
he  would  bear  himself  as  the  spiritual  heir  to  Thomas  Jefferson. 

Southerners  saw  romanticism  in  this  interview.  The  story  of  a  single 
midnight  conversation  at  Monticello,  with  Jefferson  and  Calhoun  both 
fearing  to  destroy  the  illusion  by  a  second  meeting,  seemed  to  them  akin 
to  the  old  Greek  mystic  torch  race,  where  the  wearied  runner  passed  the 
lighted  torch  up  to  a  fresh  hand  which  carried  it  on  to  the  goal.  There  is 

*It  has  been  maintained  that  this  meeting  never  took  place.  Had  it  happened, 
asserts  Charles  M.  Wiltse,  Calhoun  would  not  have  failed  to  have  mentioned  it,  or 
to  have  made  political  capital  of  it.  That  the  story  of  the  meeting  rests  solely  upon 
the  testimony  of  Mrs.  Colhoun's  son,  James,  aged  seven,  seems  also  to  have  laid  its 
authenticity  open  to  doubt. 

As  far  as  dates  are  concerned,  the  meeting  was  perfectly  possible.  Jefferson  was 
at  Monticello  until  mid-April,  1805 ;  and  Mrs.  Colhoun's  party  could  well  have  started 
north  early  in  the  month,  as  their  way  was  long,  and  already  fevers  would  have  been 
breeding  in  Charleston.  Wiltse's  contention,  that  if  the  trip  was  made  as  early  as 
April  cthe  party  should  have  reached  Newport  long  before  July,*  is  irrelevant,  for 
no  attempt  is  made  to  show  that  Newport  was  not  reached  before  July.  During 
July  Calhoun  left  Newport  for  Litchfield,  but  there  is  no  indication  as  to  how  long 
he  had  already  been  at  the  resort.  As  for  young  James's  testimony,  even  a  seven- 
year-old  can  conceivably  remember,  years  later,  a  kinsman  calling  upon  the  President 
of  the  United  States. 


36  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

truth  in  the  romanticism  of  the  legend,  for  a  friendship  did  exist  between 
Jefferson  and  Calhoun,  and  Calhoun  n^ver  used  the  fact  as  political  capi- 
tal. It  is  not  recorded  in  the  history  books,  yet  it  seems  to  have  been 
generally  known  to  Calhoun's  friends.  'Should  you  see  Mr.  Jefferson,'  we 
find  Calhoun  writing  Monroe  in  June,  1820,  'I  would  thank  you  to  make 
my  respects  to  him.'  And  in  John  Quincy  Adams's  monumental  Diary,  an 
entry  for  September  27,  1822,  quotes  Calhoun  as  remarking  that  'Mr. 
Jefferson  told  him  two  years  ago  that  we  ought  to  seize  Cuba.' 10 

Nor  would  Calhoun's  nationalism  have  necessarily  alienated  Jefferson's 
support.  Jefferson,  too,  would  favor  the  tariff  of  1816.  Jefferson,  too,  would 
realize  that  the  bonds  of  the  agrarian  democracy  he  had  created  must 
stretch  to  encompass  the  men  of  the  mines  and  the  machine  shops  whom 
he  had  once  seen  as  the  enemies  to  human  liberty. 

It  is  even  possible  that  the  tortuous  development  of  Calhoun's  thought 
through  the  eighteen-twenties  may  have  been  the  product  of  conversations 
with  a  saddened  and  fear-haunted  Jefferson.  For  it  was  only  two  years 
after  the  Sage  of  Monticello  had  died  that  Calhoun,  in  defense  of  violated 
minority  rights,  wrote  his  South  Carolina  Exposition  and  Protest,  assert- 
ing in  virtually  the  same  words  that  same  'right'  of  nullification  which 
Jefferson  had  espoused  thirty  years  before. 


In  July,  1805,  Calhoun  left  Newport  for  Litchfield.  At  Hartford,  as  he 
swung  himself  into  the  red-and-yellow  stage,  one  of  his  companions 
caught  his  eye.  He  was  a  tall  man  of  sixty  or  sixty-five  and  much  stooped, 
dressed  in  elegant  small-clothes,  his  hands  clasped  over  a  gold-headed 
cane.  His  face  was  arresting,  'soft  dark  eyes'  glowing  from  beneath  arched 
brows,  high  cheekbones,  a  mouth  straight  and  chiseled,  the  whole  con- 
tour almost  an  unearthly  blending  of  the  austere  Puritan  and  the  pagan 
Greek — the  look  that  Jonathan  Edwards  must  have  had. 

Calhoun  heard  the  stranger's  name,  Judge  Reeves.  Curiosity  stirred  in 
him.  Could  this  be  the  great  head  of  the  Law  School  to  which  he  was  now 
bound?  Hesitantly,  the  young  man  ventured  a  question,  received  an  an- 
swer, and  passed  over  his  letter  of  admission  to  the  school.  The  day 
passed  quickly.  Calhoun  found  himself  'peculiarly  fortunate'  in  the  com- 
panionship of  the  'open  and  agreeable'  old  jurist,  whose  streams  of  talk 
flowed  freely  over  the  jolting  and  creaking  of  the  stage.11 

As  they  entered  the  little  village,  its  four  main  streets  stretching  out  like 
a  cross  from  the  central  Green,  Reeves  would  have  been  busy  pointing  out 
landmarks.  To  the  west  the  dark  peak  of  Mount  Tom  brooding  over  the 
town,  and  nearer-by  the  smooth  slope  of  Prospect  Hill,  where  the  law 
students  loved  to  hunt.  Nearby  shimmered  the  bright  waters  of  Bantam 
Lake.  The  rows  of  sturdy  'salt-box'  houses  were  gay  with  color,  'earthy 


Ill  YEARS  OF  GROWTH  37 

Indian  red,'  gray-green,  or  bright  yellow.  From  open  windows  came 
sounds  pleasingly  reminiscent  of  the  Carolina  plantations:  the  buzz  of 
the  spinning  wheel,  the  clang  of  the  loom,  and  the  thumping  of  a  churn. 
Children  in  'brown  tow  crash3  played  at  the  roadside,  waving  a  greeting 
as  the  stage  thundered  past;  and  well-mounted  young  bloods  from  the 
law  school  dashed  by,  dust  rising  in  whirlwinds  about  the  flying  hooves 
of  their  horses.12 

The  new  student  did  not  arrive  unwelcomed.  As  the  stage  lumbered  its 
way  down  a  grassy  street,  John  Felder  hurried  forward  to  give  his  former 
Yale  classmate  a  warm  Carolina  greeting.  He  had  been  'anxiously'  await- 
ing him  for  some  time.  He  had  already  been  at  the  school  for  five  weeks 
and  was  'pleased  with  the  place.' 13  And  as  Calhoun  straightened  his  stiff 
legs  and  assembled  his  luggage,  Felder,  too,  was  eagerly  pointing  out  land- 
marks. Over  on  the  Green  was  the  'wliipping  post,'  where  according  to 
Connecticut  Blue  Law  offenders  'pernicious  to  the  publique  weal'  could 
be  stripped  and  'whipped  upon  the  naked  body.' 14  That  huge  four-story 
building  on  East  Street  with  the  double-galleried  porch — that  was  Catlin's 
Tavern.  The  law  students  held  their  dances  there  in  the  assembly  room 
with  its  high-arched  ceiling  and  maroon-covered  divans,  and  with  luck 
you  might  even  receive  an  invitation  to  one  of  Miss  Sally  Pierce's  school 
.  dances,  written  on  a  blank  playing  card,  the  hours  carefully  specified,  six 
to  nine. 

Felder  had  rented  a  room  for  Calhoun  and  himself  in  a  house  on  the 
corner  of  West  and  Spencer  Streets.  Later,  they  moved  to  the  home  of 
Reuben  Webster  on  Prospect  Street,  where  the  admiring  young  son  of 
the  family,  Hosea,  tagged  happily  after  the  long-legged  Calhoun,  and  on 
a  warm  day  in  spring  had  the  joy  of  holding  tight  to  the  slender  trunk 
of  a  tree  as  Calhoun  shoveled  the  dirt  in  around  the  roots,  thus  planting 
the  elm  which  tradition  demanded  of  every  Litchfield  law  student. 

Probably  both  houses  would  have  been  much  the  same  with  bare  floors 
and  whitewashed  walls,  cucumber  vines  curling  around  the  outside  of  the 
tiny-paned  windows  and  curtains  of  gay  calico  hanging  within;  the  cellar 
crammed  with  salted  meat  and  the  attic  beams  mellow  with  the  pungent 
odors  of  garden  herbs  and  dried  apples  and  peaches  swinging  from  the 
rafters.16 

Calhoun's  room  rent  would  total  about  $45  a  year,  plus  $2.75  a  week  for 
husky  meals  of  salt  beef  and  pork,  rye  bread,  potatoes,  and  cabbage.  Tui- 
tion would  be  $100  for  the  first  year,  and  $60  extra  if  he  remained  for  a 
second.16 

Calhoun  seized  his  first  spare  moment  to  write  to  Mrs.  Colhoun.  He 
was  'lonesome,'  he  admitted,  but  hoped  that  a  'few  days'  application  to 
studies  which  to  me  are  highly  interesting'  would  cure  this  particular 
ailment.  He  faced  the  future  with  zest.  'I  return,  I  assure  you,'  he  wrote, 
'with  much  pleasure  to  the  cultivation  of  Blackstone's  acquaintance.' 17 


38  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

It  was  in  this  mood  of  enthusiasm  that  Blackstone's  newest  devotee 
walked  over  to  the  square  house  with  hipped  roof  and  rambling  pillared 
porch  where  Judge  Reeves  lived.  Considering  the  size  of  its  reputation, 
the  law  school  was  incredibly  small,  housed  in  a  white  one-story  build- 
ing with  four  windows  and  a  single  fan-lit  door.  Inside  waited  a  being  as 
classic  as  his  shelter.  Judge  Gould,  'the  last  of  the  Romans,'  was  a  young 
man  still,  scarcely  half  the  age  of  his  distinguished  partner,  but  a  figure 
to  inspire  respect.  However,  no  two  men  could  have  been  more  unlike. 
Both  were  Federalists — and  of  the  most  extreme  sort — disunionists,  if  you 
will.  Both  were  undeniably  gentlemen.  Here  the  resemblances  ceased. 
Gould's  manner  was  'genial  and  refined/  his  expression  pleasant  enough, 
but  black  brows  gloomed  over  a  large  nose,  and  the  froth  of  ruffles  at  his 
throat  only  emphasized  the  sharp-pointed  chin.  'All  intellect/  men  called 
him,  yet  he  showed  no  trace  of  pedantry.  His  exposition  was  as  logical  as 
a  problem  in  mathematics,  brief  and  clear  even  to  newcomers.  He  read  his 
lectures  slowly,  and  at  the  end  discussed  the  more  critical  parts.  Where 
Gould's  every  sentence  was  'transparent  and  penetrating  as  light/  Reeves's 
lectures  were  'a  huddle  of  ideas/  of  scrappy  notes  and  ragged  sentences, 
torn  off  in  the  middle  and  left  dangling  in  the  air.  His  voice  was  only  a 
whisper,  but  a  whisper  of  such  vibrance  that  a  hundred  students  could 
hear  it.  None  could  deny  Gould's  talents  or  his  genius  for  leadership; 
he  was  generally  conceded  to  be  more  'learned  and  lucid'  than  Reeves; 
but  it  was  the  older  man  whom  Nature  had  touched  with  genius,  and 
whom  all  students  loved.  Generations  of  schoolboys  cherished  his  quip 
that  he  had  never  seen  a  little  girl  but  what  he  wanted  to  kiss  her;  but, 
as  for  little  boys,  he  wanted  only  to  thrash  them,  for  if  they  were  not  bad 
now,  they  would  be  some  day.  Legal  experts  were  quick  to  point  out  that 
Reeves's  Treatise  on  Domestic  Pleading  leaned  entirely  too  far  in  the 
direction  of  Women's  Rights,  but  this  criticism  would  have  impressed 
Tapping  Reeves  as  a  compliment.  He  glorified,  idealized  'the  fairer  sex/ 
Certainly  they  had  wills  of  their  own,  'most  happily  for  us.'  Students 
•  left  his  classroom  with  occasional  misgivings  on  the  subject  of  torts,  but 
fired  with  eagerness  to  'be  the  defenders  of  the  right  and  the  avengers 
of  the  wrong.' 18 

To  Litchfield,  Tapping  Reeves  was  the  typical  absent-minded  professor. 
Lost  in  thought,  his  long  gray  hair  floating  to  his  shoulders,  he  was  a 
familiar  sight  on  the  elm-shaded  streets,  ambling  along,  carefully  holding 
the  bridle  rein  of  a  horse  that  had  eluded  him  and  was  happily  grazing  in 
someone's  garden,  blocks  away.19 

Reeves  did  have  much  upon  his  mind.  In  April  of  1806,  during  Cal- 
houn's  residence,  a  Federal  Grand  Jury  did  not  hesitate  to  indict  Reeves 
for  a  'libelous'  attack  on  President  Thomas  Jefferson.  And  there  was 
his  brother-in-law  and  one-time  student,  Aaron  Burr,  to  consider — a  fallen 
angel  indeed!  It  was  only  five  years  before  that  Burr  had  tied  with 


Ill  YEARS   OF  GROWTH  39 

Jefferson  on  the  electoral  vote  for  President  of  the  United  States,  and 
shortly  afterward  had  rapped  his  first  gavel  as  Vice-President  of  the 
nation.  Two  years  later,  dark,  dapper,  and  debonair,  with  all  of  his  grand- 
father Jonathan  Edwards's  genius  and  none  of  his  morals,  he  had  killed 
Alexander  Hamilton,  and  from  then  on  Burr,  'the  beautiful  and  damned/ 
was  a  man  to  be  spoken  of  in  whispers.  Litchfield  saw  him  no  more,  but 
rumors  filtered  into  the  little  town  of  empires  far  to  the  Southwest,  of 
uprising  and  revolution,  of  a  trial  for  treason,  and  a  defending  lawyer 
from  Kentucky,  named  Henry  Clay. 


Litchfield  was  a  sleepy  town.  The  calendar  might  declare  the  year  was 
1805,  but  the  little  Connecticut  village  still  lingered  in  the  twilight  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  Litchfield  was  sure  that  the  end  of  the  Republic  was 
at  hand.  Symbolic  was  the  dress  of  Judge  Reeves  and  all  male  citizens  with 
any  claim  to  respectability:  the  buckled  breeches  and  ruffled  stocks,  the 
cocked  hats  with  powdered  queues  hanging  behind.  Even  the  law  students 
— although  dandified  young  Southerners  disported  themselves  in  'pink  ging- 
ham frock  coats' — were  expected  to  conform.  Bold  was  the  youth  who 
defied  custom,  for  'tight  trousers  .  .  .  pantaloons/  disheveled  hair  and 
laced  shoes,  had  an  unholy  significance;  they  were  the  trade-mark  of 
Sabbath-breakers,  tipplers,  and  'ruff-scuff';  in  short,  of  the  followers  of 
the  'atheist  and  libertine/  Thomas  Jefferson.20 

But  Calhoun  dared  assert  himself.  The  young  man  who  had  flouted 
'Pope'  Dwight,  who  had  followed  his  dreams  and  yearnings  up  the  slope 
of  Monticello,  who  had  clasped  the  warm  freckled  hand  of  the  most  hated 
and  beloved  man  in  America,  who  had  shared  his  food  and  slept  under 
his  roof,  was  in  no  mood  to  hold  his  tongue,  remove  his  pantaloons,  or 
conform  to  Litchfield  opinion.  With  his  shaggy  hair  falling  in  loose  masses 
over  his  forehead  and  temples,  he  was  'free  in  his  conversation/  and  soon 
all  Litchfield  knew  exactly  where  he  stood.  And  he  paid  for  Ids  political 
opinions.  'This  place  is  so  much  agitated  by  party  feelings/  he  wrote  in 
December,  1805,  'that  both  Mr.  Felder  and  myself  find  it  prudent  to  form 
few  connections  in  town.  This,  though  somewhat  disagreeable,  is  not  un- 
favorable to  our  studies.  ...  I  take/  he  confessed,  somewhat  wistfully, 
'little  amusement  and  live  a  very  studious  life.21 

But  Sunday  was  the  day  of  reckoning.  Amidst  a  congregation  of  'lean 
and  sturdy'  farmers,  of  women  in  silver  or  steel-rimmed  spectacles,  sur- 
reptitiously nibbling  orange  peel  to  keep  awake,  of  schoolgirls  pricking 
each  other  with  pins,  eyes  would  have  been  quick  to  ferret  out  the  slim 
form  of  John  Calhoun.  Public  interest  in  his  appearance  at  church  must 
have  been  especially  keen,  for  a  young  man  of  such  avowed  political 


4Q  JOHN    C.    CALHOUN 

heresies  would  have  been  all  the  more  suspect  on  the  score  of  morals  and 
religion.  Attendance  under  these  circumstances  must  have  been  a  virtual 
spiritual  exposure  in  the  stocks. 

Calhoun  could  not  endure  it.  He  was  not  irreligious.  He  was  as  much  at 
peace  with  his  soul  as  any  intensely  thinking  and  questioning  young  man 
of  twenty-three  can  be.  He  could  receive  with  'gratitude'  Mrs.  Colhoun's 
'anxious  solicitude'  for  his  welfare  on  'the  all  important  subject  of  re- 
ligion'; and  assure  her  that  whatever  she  might  say  would  be  'kindly 
received.'  But  religion,  then  as  later  with  him,  was  a  distinctly  personal 
thing.  He  would  not  be  bullied  into  churchgoing  nor  made  the  cynosure 
of  the  staring  eyes  of  the  town.  And  yet  he  suffered  under  his  ostracism. 
He  was  far  from  home,  and  his  friends'  letters  became  fewer  and  fewer. 
'I  know  not  when,  I  have  been  so  unfortunate  in  hearing  from  my  friends, 
as  I  have  been  since  my  arrival  here,'  he  wrote  Mrs.  Colhoun.  He  had  not 
received  ca  scrap  of  a  pen'  from  South  Carolina,  although  he  had  writ- 
ten to  nearly  everyone  he  knew.  He  haunted  the  postoffice  at  every  mail, 
but  'uniformly  had  the  mortification  of  disappointment.'  " 

Then  he  found  escape.  In  the  neighboring  town  of  Cornwall  lived  an- 
other John  Calhoun,  a  country  doctor  of  'the  best  man  God  ever  made' 
variety.  Just  how  closely  they  were  related  is  impossible  to  determine; 
the  roots  of  both  struck  back  to  the  same  soil  in  Scotland,  but  the  lonely 
South  Carolinian  was  quick  to  seek  out  his  namesake  and  to  seize  on  even 
the  most  fragile  ties  of  relationship.  Soon  the  young  law  student  had  a 
standing  invitation  to  spend  every  weekend  at  the  doctor's  home.  Blue 
Laws  might  pronounce  that  'No  one  shall  run  of  a  Sabbath-day,  or  walk 
in  his  garden,  or  elsewhere,  except  reverently  to  and  from  church';  '~* 
but  Calhoun  cared  little. 

As  Cornwall  was  a  good  fifteen  miles  from  Litchfield  and  Calhoun 
walked  the  entire  distance,  the  doctor's  company  must  have  presented 
unusual  attractions.  Soon  the  two  men  became  really  fond  of  each 
other;  and  the  story  of  their  friendship  has  been  handed  down  in  the 
annals  of  the  Connecticut  Calhouns.24  Perhaps  it  was  then  that  Cal- 
houn gained  his  understanding  of  New  England's  basic  patriotism  run- 
ning like  bedrock  under  the  foam  of  party  feeling — knowledge  which  was 
to  be  reassuring  during  the  dark  days  of  the  War  of  1812. 

His  ostracism  did  nothing  to  cure  Calhoun  of  his  taste  for  politics.  He 
took  a  lively  interest  in  town  government,  and  later  confessed  that  he 
gained  his  knowledge  of  caucus  politics  from  the  manipulations  at  town 
meetings.  As  a  keen-eyed  observer  he  could  have  seen  'the  paupers  of  the 
Town  .  .  .  sold  at  auction  to  those  who  keep  them  cheapest,  taking  into 
account  the  work  they  were  capable  of  doing! '  For  the  'pauper  was  a  slave 
.  .  .  sold  yearly  as  long  as  he  lived';  *  and  critics  who  have  wondered 
how  Calhoun  could  have  lived  four  years  in  New  England  with  no  qualms 
as  to  the  righteousness  of  the  South's  'peculiar  institution'  may  have  for- 


Ill  YEARS   OF   GROWTH  41 

gotten  that  black  slavery  was  still  legal  in  Connecticut,  although  owners 
were  finding  it  more  profitable  to  sell  the  Negroes  South  and  to  auction  off 
the  whites  at  town  meeting. 


Calhoun's  zest  for  his  new  profession  quickly  waned.  Not  all  Reeves's 
digressions  and  Gould's  lucidity  could  keep  the  journey  through  the  'ex- 
terior fields  of  law7  from  being  'dry  and  solitary.'  Often,  when  submerged 
in  a  welter  of  bills,  notes,  and  pleading,  Calhoun  looked  with  wistful  envy 
on  his  friend  Alexander  Noble,  who  Entirely  relinquished  the  business  of 
a  merchant  for  that  of  a  farmer  .  .  .  Tho7  less  profitable  it  certainly  is 
more  peacable  and  favourable  to  happiness.7  Would  his  time  ever  be  his 
own  again?  Perhaps,  when  he  had  gained  'a  pretty  thorough  knowledge" 
of  his  profession;  but  perhaps  this,  too,  was  only  a  'pleasant  dream/  as 
each  succeeding  year  would  pile  on  its  cown  particular  cares  and  busi- 
ness.7 * 

To  study  the  law  lectures,  not  as  they  usually  were  studied,  but  as  he 
was  convinced  'they  ought  to  be,7  absorbed  his  time.  Although  longing  to 
be  with  Mrs.  Colhoun  and  'the  children7  in  Newport,  he  held  out  firmly 
against  this  temptation.  Grimly  he  forced  himself  to  admit  that  the  lack 
of  'social  pleasure7  was  exactly  what  he  needed  to  stimulate  his  'studious 
habits.  .  .  .  I  have  always  found/  he  explained  to  Mrs.  Colhoun,  'that 
just  ...  as  the  number  of  friends  .  .  .  increases  around  me,  and  a  con- 
sequent opportunity  of  interesting  conversation,  my  attention  to  my 
studies  has  relaxed/ 

Hard  work  was  the  result  of  equally  hard  self-discipline.  There  were 
exasperated  moments  when  he  would  toss  it  all  'aside  for  the  more  delicious 
theme  of  the  muses,  .  .  .  interesting  pages  of  history,7  or  the  newspapers. 
Always,  too,  he  would  'throw  away  with  joy7  his  studies  to  hear  from  his 
Carolina  correspondents.  'You  do  me  injustice  in  supposing  your  letters 
intrude  on  my  studious  disposition,7  he  wrote  Andrew  Pickens.  'Many 
things  I  study  for  the  love  of  study,  but  not  so  with  law.  I  can  never 
consider  it,  but  as  a  task.  .  ,  .  But,  I  confess  from  my  aversion  ...  I 
draw  a  motive  to  industry.  It  must  be  done,  and  the  sooner  the  better,  is 
often  my  logick,7  ** 

Despite  his  distaste  for  law,  Calhoun  was  distinguishing  himself  in  it. 
Nor  did  he  neglect  that  most  essential  part  of  the  Southern  lawyers  or 
statesman7s  equipment — oratory.  The  promise  that  he  had  shown  at 
Yale  was  being  fulfilled.  He  was  cultivating  his  newfound  talent  for  pub- 
lic speaking  with  such  thoroughness  that  despite  his  early  speech  impedi- 
ment, he  now  'excelled  all  his  companions.7  His  powers  of  logic,  too,  were 
commanding  attention.  At  a  moment's  notice  he  would  gather  up  the 


42  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

threads  of  half  a  dozen  desultory  arguments,  weave  them  together,  and 
answer  them  all  in  <a  logical,  lucidly  arranged  speech,  indicating  no 
formal  preparation.' 28  He  owed  much  to  Gould's  clear  logical  exposition. 
But  Calhoun  was  learning  more  than  law  at  Litchfield.  The  startling 
fact  is  that  every  principle  of  secession  or  states'  rights  which  Calhoun 
ever  voiced  can  be  traced  right  back  to  the  thinking  of  intellectual  New 
England  in  the  early  eighteen-hundreds.  Not  the  South,  not  slavery,  but 
Yale  College  and  Litchfield  Law  School  made  Calhoun  a  nullifier.  In  the 
little  classroom,  Reeves  at  white  heat  and  Gould  with  cold  logic  argued 
the  'right'  of  secession  as  the  only  refuge  for  minorities.  Logically,  their 
argument  was  unimpeachable.  Messrs.  Dwight,  Reeves,  and  Gould  could 
not  convince  the  young  patriot  from  South  Carolina  as  to  the  desirability 
of  secession,  but  they  left  no  doubts  in  his  mind  as  to  its  legality. 

Calhoun  was  not  wholly  unhappy  in  Litchfield.  Not  all  the  bitterness 
and  bickering  of  small-town  politics  could  break  the  spell  of  that  late 
and  fragile  spring  of  1806  for  which  he  waited  longingly,  week  after  week, 
until  June  came  at  last  with  its  showers  of  dropping  blossoms  and  over- 
head the  fresh  and  swaying  green.  It  was  then  that  Litchfield  seemed  to 
him  'among  the  most  pleasant  towns  I  have  ever  been  in'; 20  and  the  magic 
of  that  late  spring  lingered.  Fall  brought  new  pleasures,  rambles  through 
the  underbrush  on  Prospect  Hill,  and  even  an  occasional  pigeon  hunt. 
Life  was  good. 

He  returned  from  two  weeks'  summer  vacation  in  Newport,  reluctant, 
yet  feeling  'a  secret  satisfaction  on  returning  to  a  place,  in  which  I  have 
spent  so  many  agreeable  moments.'  Home-loving  even  in  a  rented  room, 
he  enjoyed  arranging  his  few  belongings  as  attractively  as  possible.  'I  al- 
ways endeavor  to  make  the  place  I  reside  in  agreeable;  from  a  conviction, 
that  it  is  necessary  to  every  other  enjoyment,' 80  he  told  Mrs.  Colhoun. 

He  had  more  time  for  recreation  this  year.  Litchfield  was  Puritan  New 
England,  to  be  sure,  but  it  was  old  New  England  still;  and  in  the  great 
kitchen  fireplaces  a  blue  dye-pot,  covered  with  a  plank,  waited  invitingly 
for  courting  couples;  and  the  bundling  bed  and  the  bundling  board  were 
still  more  than  memories.  If  Calhoun  chose  to  linger  late  into  an  autumn 
evening,  strolling  with  his  girl  through  a  shadowy  field  at  the  foot  of 
Chestnut  Hill,  or  sitting  on  a  stone  wall  watching  the  moon  lift  itself 
over  the  branches  of  an  apple  tree,  no  rebuke  would  be  offered  on  their 
return.  For  all  their  Blue  Laws,  Connecticut  folk  were  as  lenient  toward 
youth  as  they  were  strict  in  religion;  chaperonage  was  the  product  of  a 
later  age,  and  young  boarders  were  expected  only  to  obey  the  rules  of  the 
household  in  which  they  lived.81 

Sleigh-riding  delighted  him.  <I  was  out  last  evening  .  .  .  and  found  it 
very  agreeable/ 32  he  wrote  Mrs.  Colhoun.  Often  twenty  sleighs,  ringing 
with  bells  and  laughter,  would  jounce  across  the  hard-packed  country 


HI  YEARS   OF   GROWTH  43 

roads,  and  it  is  most  unlikely  that  one  of  Miss  Sally  Pierce's  girls  would 
not  have  shared  the  warmth  of  a  bearskin  with  Calhoun.  Connecticut 
youth  would  defy  the  coldest  night  of  the  year  and  a  blizzard  so  thick 
that  the  ears  of  the  horses  were  blotted  out,  to  drive  seven  or  eight  miles 
to  some  country  tavern,  tumbling  down  for  handfuls  of  snow  to  rub 
against  a  frozen  ear  or  cheek;  one  or  two  of  the  boys  shaking  icicles 
from  their  very  ears;  then  into  the  tavern  for  supper,  dancing,  and  hot 
rum  and  cider,  emerging  hours  later  to  pile  into  the  frosty  sleigh  and 
speed  back  against  the  glittering  roadway  as  if  to  win  a  race  against  the 
dawn. 

That  Calhoun  enjoyed  the  rigors  of  the  New  England  climate  would  be 
asking  too  much  of  outraged  Southern  nature.  This  winter  was  an  aching 
cold,  a  cold  with  the  feel  of  the  first  spring  plunge  in  a  Carolina  river, 
but  it  set  his  blood  atingle.  He  had  put  on  some  much-needed  weight; 
and  although  believing  that  he  was  always  'in  the  best  of  health  when 
studying  closely,'  he  paid  careful  attention  to  exercise  and  temperance. 
When,  for  the  last  time,  he  left  the  wind-swept  hills  of  Litchfield  and 
boarded  the  stage  for  Philadelphia  on  his  way  home,  he  had  not  felt  so 
well  in  years.  Years  later  he  would  write  a  friend  that  no  time  of  his  life 
had  been  spent  so  advantageously  as  at  Litchfield.  'I  love  to  dwell  on  it.' M 


There  could  have  been  no  greater  contrast  to  the  austerity  of  Litchfield 
than  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  in  1806.  Charleston  was  not  the  fragile 
shell  of  its  post-bellum  days,  a  city  of  dreams  and  mellowed,  wistful 
memories,  but  a  trading  port,  vividly  alive,  looking  to  foreign  visitors, 
a  blending  of  Southern  Europe  and  the  Orient.  Calhoun's  senses  were 
lashed  with  stimuli,  overpowered  by  the  headiness  of  gardenias,  mag- 
nolias, and  camellias,  the  scents  of  orange  blossoms,  sweet  olives  and  figs, 
all  contrasted  to  the  reek  of  low  tide  when  the  Ashley  and  the  Cooper 
receded  from  the  mud-flats  and  buzzards  perched  themselves  on  long 
posts,  rising  inch  by  inch  from  the  water.84 

Even  the  cramped  streets  could  not  shut  out  the  tropic  sunlight  as  it 
sparkled  against  the  great  hedges  of  Cherokee  roses  with  their  shimmer- 
ing leaves  and  glanced  off  the  white  stuccoed  houses.  If  Calhoun  had 
climbed  the  spire  of  Saint  Michael's,  as  so  many  travelers  did,  he  would 
have  seen  the  city  spread  out  before  him  like  a  fan,  and  looked  down 
through  swimming  haze  on  hip  roofs,  where  red  tile  had  faded  into  pink 
and  lavender,  on  buildings  early  aged  by  mold  and  damp;  on  yucca  and 
palmetto  and  bright-leaved  magnolias.35 

Descending  to  the  street,  he  would  have  jostled  full-figured  mulatto  girls, 
sweating  West  Indians;  perhaps  an  old  man  in  the  knee-breeches  and  dia- 


44  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

mond-budded  shoes  of  an  earlier  era,  his  powdered  hair  tied  back  in  a 
queue,  his  Negro  body-servant  in  coat  of  broadcloth  and  satin  pantaloons. 
He  would  have  passed  pale  girls,  their  hair  a  tumble  of  curls  upon  their 
shoulders,  eyes  gazing  'soulfully'  out  from  willow  bonnets  or  picture  hats 
of  straw  tied  with  ribbons;  young  Jeffersonians  like  himself  with  cropped 
hair  and  'slovenly'  pantaloons; 36  a  slave  woman  carrying  a  gaudy  basket 
of  fruit  upon  her  turbaned  head;  another  gracefully  balancing  a  jug  of 
water. 

Following  the  crowds,  Calhoun  would  have  sought  the  docks,  for  there 
activity  was  greatest.  Sails  moved  along  the  tawny  river  water;  green 
heaps  of  bananas  and  pyramids  of  coconuts,  sacks  of  coffee,  sugar,  and 
flour  were  piled  upon  the  wharves;  burly  stevedores,  sweat  dripping  from 
their  black  foreheads  and  great  muscles  rippling  across  their  bare  backs, 
moved  past,  shoulders  sagging  under  sacks  of  rice  or  bales  of  cotton,  eyes 
rolling  toward  a  Negro  woman  who  stood  nearby,  her  child  balanced 
upon  her  hip.  The  very  air  was  alive  with  sound;  the  chanting  wail  of  the 
dock  laborer,  the  distant  shout  of  the  slave  auctioneer  and  the  crack  of 
his  gavel;  and  over  all,  the  chiming,  silvery  sweetness  of  the  bells  of 
Saint  Michael's.37 

To  this  riot  of  scent  and  sight,  color  and  sound,  Calhoun  could  not 
have  been  indifferent.  Were  more  of  his  Charleston  letters  preserved,  it  is 
possible  that  we  should  find  that  he  described  the  panorama  in  the  words 
which  he  applied  to  the  scenery  of  the  hill-country,  as  'romantick  in  a 
high  degree.'  **  But  he  did  not  approve  of  it.  He  did  not  approve  of  it  at 
all.  His  reactions  were  perfectly  normal,  perfectly  characteristic  of  any 
young  Puritan  taught  to  think  that  Charleston  was  a  sort  of  Paris,  dedi- 
cated to  the  pleasures  of  this  world.  A  glance  at  the  South  Carolina 
Gazette  would  only  have  confirmed  his  suspicions.  Lottery  agents  prom- 
ised him  $30,000  for  800  cents;  Robinson's  Summer  Coffee  House  lured 
with  enticements  of  'cool  creams  and  jellies7;  the  Dock  Street  Theater 
beckoned  with  The  Prisoner  at  Large,  and  Love  Laughs  at  Locksmiths; 
the  bookstore  flaunted  The  Wild  Irish  Boy,  and  The  Pleasures  of  Love, 
being  Amatory  poems™ 

History  has  it  that  another  young  Scotch-Irishman  dallied  gaily  in  the 
pleasures  of  Charleston,  with  special  attention  to  horse-racing,  cockfighting, 
drinking,  and  gambling,  with  disastrous  results,  both  to  his  self-esteem 
and  his  pocketbook.40  But  Calhoun  did  not  follow  Andrew  Jackson's  ex- 
ample. He  was  sophisticated  enough  to  realize  the  cynical  amusement  of 
the  cultivated  Charlestonians  at  raw  'up-country  gentlemen,'  and,  further- 
more, a  consciousness  of  sin  weighed  him  down.  Still  convinced  that  He 
,  whom  he  called  'the  author  of  good'  was  giving  His  personal  attention  to 
everything  that  he  did,  Calhoun  was  distressed  at  the  indifference  to  re- 
ligion which  he  found  in  Charleston.  Indeed,  in  the  South  Carolina  metrop- 
olis, which  had  not  yet  outgrown  its  youthful  coarseness,  Sunday  was  a 


Ill  YEARS   OF   GROWTH  45 

sort  of  gala  day,  devoted  to  visiting  and  horse-racing.  To  young  John 
Calhoun  the  situation  was  appalling,  and  he  wrote  sadly  of  that  city  cso 
corrupt  ...  so  inattentive  to  every  call  of  religion.741 

'Since  my  arrival  here,  I  have  been  very  much  of  a  recluse/  he  wrote  in 
December,  1806.  'I  board  with  the  French  protestant  minister  Mr.  Detar- 
geuy.  ...  It  is  a  quiet  house  and  answers  my  purpose  well.' 42  Absorbed 
in  his  studies  in  Chancellor  De  Saussure's  law  office,  he  had  withdrawn 
into  himself,  condemning  Charleston  on  surface  appearances.  Indeed,  after 
this  period  Calhoun  never  lived  again  in  Charleston,  and  took  no  part 
in  its  life  at  all 


IV 

The  Birth  of  a  Patriot 


THOUGH  Calhoun  did  not  know  it,  his  public  life  was  born  on  a  spring 
day  in  1807,  when  a  British  man-of-war,  the  Leopard,  lurking  off  the 
Virginia  capes,  opened  fire  upon  the  American  frigate,  the  Chesapeake. 
With  disciplined  coolness  English  seamen  boarded  and  carried  off  three 
Yankee  sailors  for  impressment  into  His  Majesty's  service  and  the  war 
against  Napoleon.*  Twenty-one  Americans  were  left  dead  or  wounded. 
Across  the  United  States  anger  spread  like  a  prairie  fire,  and  with  wounds 
from  the  Revolution  scarcely  healed,  the  country  clamored  for  war  and 
punishment  of  the  aggressor.  Despite  President  Jefferson's  efforts  at  ap- 
peasement, bitter  farmers  and  townspeople  all  over  the  states  gathered 
into  informal  assemblies  and  passed  resolutions  of  censure  and  indignation. 

Nowhere  was  the  public  temper  at  higher  pitch  than  in  Abbeville,  South 
Carolina.  In  front  of  the  old  red-painted  log  cabin  where  Calhoun  had 
opened  his  law  office,  the  new  attorney  could  often  be  seen  standing  bare- 
headed in  the  midst  of  a  large  and  milling  group  of  townspeople,  talking 
fervently.  His  indignation  must  have  been  in  accord  with  the  general 
sentiment,  for  he  was  the  man  selected  to  draw  up  appropriate  resolutions 
for  a  public  meeting  on  June  22.  An  overt  act  of  foreign  aggression  had 
served  to  open  his  career.1 

No  doubt  he  spent  hours  in  preparation,  for  he  could  not  have  been 
unaware  of  the  honor  bestowed  upon  him.  Resolutions  were  the  free  speech 
of  a  people  at  one  with  their  government,  aware  of  the  importance  of  the 
individual  in  the  general  scheme.  Though  Washington  was  three  weeks' 
hard  travel  from  Abbeville,  actually  the  little  country  village  in  the  foot- 
hills and  the  overgrown  village  on  the  Potomac  were  closer  to  each  other 
than  automobiles  and  railroads  would  make  them  a  century  later.  The 
government  in  Washington  was  no  abstract  mechanism,  where  responsi- 
bility to  the  people  was  lost  in  a  tangled  mesh  of  weavings  and  inter- 
weavings.  It  was  a  vital  living  organism,  dreamed  and  shaped  by  men 
still  alive,  who  had  given  their  personal  consent  to  its  formation  and  who 

*  These  three  Americans  had  previously  been  impressed  by  the  British  and  had 
escaped.  A  fourth  sailor,  one  Jenkin  Rafford,  was  a  true  deserter  from  the  British 
Navy  and  was  also  removed  from  the  Chesapeake. 


IV  THE  BIRTH   OF   A  PATRIOT  47 

could,  at  will,  withdraw  it.2  It  was  a  government  of  men  who  still  believed 
that  in  voicing  their  honest  opinions  in  resolutions  of  praise  and  censure, 
they  could  sway  public  policy. 

As  Calhoun  would  for  tie  first  time  appear  'before  his  assembled 
countrymen/  he  dressed  carefully  for  the  occasion,  in  a  dark  coat,  light 
'weskit/  and  the  newly  fashionable  trousers  of  the  same  color.  Holding 
himself  proudly  erect,  he  looked  even  taller  than  his  six  feet  two  inches, 
for  he  was  thin  to  the  point  of  gauntness.  Already,  the  hollows  were  deep 
under  his  cheekbones.  But  if  his  bone  contours  were  Scottish,  his  coloring 
was  Irish,  and  black  Irish  at  that.  His  hair,  short-clipped  and  parted  on 
the  side,  was  dark  and  thick,  appearing  from  a  distance  almost  black,  and 
the  dark,  clear  eyes  flashed  with  an  'intense  light'  from  under  bushy  black 
brows.8 

Calhoun's  actual  remarks  have  been  lost,  but  there  is  plenty  of  evidence 
that  they  were  highly  satisfactory.  The  words  'freedom/  'glory/  and  'public 
honour'  had  a  fresh-minted  ring  in  those  days,  and  a  speaker  far  less 
eloquent  than  Calhoun  would  have  had  no  difficulty  in  arousing  indigna- 
tion. Though  no  demagogue,  he  had  only  to  recall  the  stories  from  his  own 
childhood — the  prison  camp  at  Camden  where  men  from  all  over  Carolina 
had  died  of  untended  wounds,  smallpox,  and  starvation,  and  of  the  hell- 
ship  at  St.  Augustine — to  have  his  audience  kindle  into  flame.  As  yet,  he 
was  no  great  orator;  he  had  various  minor  defects  to  correct  in  his  de- 
livery; but  his  'fiery  zeal/  'nervous  impetuosity/  and  keen  indignation  saw 
him  through  very  well. 

Although  the  passage  of  Abbeville's  indignation  resolutions  had  no 
perceptible  effect  upon  the  British  Navy,  they  made  a  great  difference  in 
the  future  career  of  their  author.  For  he  was  a  lawyer,  and  the  people  of 
Abbeville  had  long  cherished  an  ardent  dislike  of  lawyers.4  Old  Patrick 
Calhoun  had  voiced  the  community  opinion  several  years  before  when  he 
announced  that  he  'would  sooner  gie  a  poound  for  a  lawyer's  skelp,  than 
an  Indian's.' 6  Now  Abbeville's  sentiment  changed,  changed  so  completely 
that  by  general  acclaim  in  the  fall  of  1807  John  Calhoun  was  elected, 
without  opposition,  to  the  legislative  seat  so  long  held  by  his  father.  For 
years,  no  lawyer  in  the  district  had  dared  offer  himself  as  a  candidate. 


Calhoun  had  more  than  a  year  to  wait  before  he  took  his  seat  in  the  Legis- 
lature. Meanwhile,  he  was  besieged  by  clients.  His  teacher,  Chancellor 
Bowie,  commented  that  'Perhaps  no  lawyer  in  the  State  ever  acquired  so 
high  a  reputation  from  his  first  appearance  at  the  bar  as  he  did.' 6  Popular 
throughout  the  district,  he  had  also  a  large  practice  in  Newberry,  the 
home  of  his  mother's  relatives.  And  yet  he  was  miserably  unhappy.  He 


48  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

was  going  through  a  struggle  common  to  most  young  lawyers,  as  to  whether 
his  duty  was  to  do  the  best  he  could  for  his  client  or  for  the  claims  of 
society.  He  took  the  problem  seriously,  and  would  have  seen  no  humor 
at  all  in  Henry  Clay's  courtroom  declaration  to  a  client  charged  with  steal- 
ing a  beehive:  'We  lost  our  case,  but  by  God,  we  still  have  our  bee-gum/ 7 
Criminal  practice,  of  which  there  was  always  a  sufficiency,  was  congenial 
to  Calhoun  only  when  he  could  break  loose  from  'the  shackles  of  an  arbi- 
trary technical  system,'  and  expound  in  'the  wider  field  of  natural  justice.' 

Justice,  however,  was  not  natural  to  the  Southern  back-country.  Chas- 
tisements were  severe:  the  horse-thief,  although  not  ordinarily  lynched, 
might  well  have  preferred  to  be;  instead,  he  was  seated  four  hours  in  the 
pillories,  given  'three  good  whippings'  of  thirty-nine  lashes  each,  and 
finally  branded  upon  the  shoulder.  Imprisonment  for  debt  was  common, 
and  a  prisoner's  freedom  depended  not  nearly  so  much  upon  his  guilt  or 
innocence  as  upon  the  eloquence  of  his  attorney.  A  lawyer  could  spend 
hours  and  days  rooting  through  the  statutes  of  the  state,  only  to  be  de- 
feated by  an  opponent  more  adept  at  boldly  asserting  and  maintaining  his 
arguments.  A  fluent  tongue  counted  for  far  more  than  a  well-stocked  brain. 
It  would  have  taken  Calhoun,  brilliant,  but  unpredictable,  long  to  live 
down  the  day  when  he  put  in  a  plea  of  manslaughter  for  a  client  accused 
of  murder.  Only  the  hastily  assembled  emotional  forces  of  Calhoun's  senior 
colleague  could  convince  the  jury  that  the  accused  was  'Not  guilty.' 
Potentially,  John  Calhoun  might  be  'the  greatest  logician  in  America,7  but 
his  powers  of  cold,  dear  analysis  were  far  more  suited  to  the  corporation 
practice  of  a  later  day,  or  even  to  the  Supreme  Court,  than  to  the  Carolina 
back-country.  Fresh  from  the  best  law  school  in  the  nation,  Calhoun  had 
no  desire  to  lower  his  arguments  to  the  mentalities  of  men  less  intelligent 
than  he,  nor  to  play  on  the  emotions  of  an  ignorant,  frontier  jury.  'I  feel 
myself,'  he  wrote  Mrs.  Colhoun,  'a  slave  chained  down  to  a  particular 
place  and  course  of  life.' 8 

Yet  to  most  of  those  hard-living,  hard-fighting  young  lawyers  of  the 
back-country,  life  was  a  rollicking,  roistering  affair.  They  were  like  a  band 
of  strolling  players  on  their  geldings  or  in  their  two-wheeled  sulkies,  the 
judge  in  'finest  broadcloth5  at  the  procession's  head,  as  they  rode  the 
circuit  all  the  way  from  the  blue-misted  foothills  to  the  black  swamp 
waters  near  Craytonville.  They  fought  their  way  through  the  lurching 
farm  wagons  and  saddle  horses  around  the  public  squares,  rubbed  shoulders 
with  the  'drinking,  fighting,  and  jollifying'  mob  of  court  day,  who  wrestled, 
shot,  gambled,  'snuffed  the  candle/  raced  their  horses  and  fought  their 
cocks,  challenged  the  roarer  'to  make  good  his  roarings,'  and  'drank  each 
other  under  the  table.'  Inside  the  courtroom,  before  a  judge  sprawled  on 
the  bench  'half  asleep,  with  his  hat  on'  and  bare  toes  sticking  from  'a  pair 
of  old  worsted  stockings,'  the  lawyers  of  the  circuit  matched  wits,  shouting 
that  right  was  wrong,  or  black,  white. 


IV  THE  BIRTH  OP  A  PATRIOT  49 

Nights  were  scarcely  less  strenuous.  Too  keyed  up  for  sleep,  the  young 
attorneys  frequented  taverns  and  'houses  of  pleasure/  only  to  be  bedded 
down  at  last  often  in  rows  in  the  tavern  ballroom,  'not  less  than  two,  nor 
usually  more  than  three  to  a  bed,'  with  'bugs  hunted  out/  against  the 
arrival  of  its  occupants.  Then  came  the  story-telling,  the  battles  of  the 
courtroom  refought  and  rewon,  the  'feverish  gambling'  at  loo,  brag,  whist, 
and  twenty-deck  poker,  when  Blackstone's  winner  of  the  morning  might 
lose  to  Hoyle  at  night.9 

Knowing  the  fastidious  Calhoun,  it  is  easy  to  understand  how  little 
appeal  this  rough-and-tumble  life  held  for  him.  He  lacked  the  animal 
spirits,  the  vitality,  perhaps,  that  made  the  circuit  a  gala  holiday  to  Henry 
Clay  and  endurable  even  to  Abraham  Lincoln.  Mentally  he  was  a  splendid 
lawyer;  but  temperamentally  he  was  too  constrained  for  his  profession. 
But  he  won  recognition  upon  his  own  terms.  If  he  was  adequate  during  the 
two  months  on  the  circuit,  he  shone  during  the  long  warm  evenings  on  the 
porch  of  his  Abbeville  home,  when  surrounded  by  fellow  lawyers  and 
students  who  were  already  striving  for  places  in  his  office,  he  would  talk 
on  and  on  in  words  fresh  with  the  flavor  of  his  own  keen  thinking.  As 
the  cool  air  from  the  foothills  worked  its  way  through  the  shadows,  talk 
would  be  enlivened  with  foot-races,  with  the  more  agile  Calhoun  beating 
the  more  vigorous  Bob  Yancey.10 

•  But  all  this  was  small  outlet  for  a  man  of  Calhoun's  drive  and  mag- 
netism. His  ideas  extended  beyond  the  mediocrities  of  practice  in  a  small 
Southern  town;  and  he  suffered  from  the  frustration  of  wasted  abilities 
that  could  only  find  employment  in  unraveling  causes  and  seeking  effects. 
His  one  hope  was  that  the  law  might  prove  a  stepping  stone  upward,  a 
hope  consummated  in  his  election  to  the  Legislature.  Meanwhile,  restless, 
bored,  and  unhappy  in  his  work,  he  sought — and  found — diversion. 


The  diversion,  as  is  usual  in  such  instances,  was  a  woman.  Legends  linger- 
ing in  the  Carolina  up-country  have  named  her  Nancy  Hanks;  and  by 
strange  historical  coincidence  she  may  even  have  been  related  to  the 
Kentucky  girl  who  became  the  mother  of  Abraham  Lincoln.11  Nancy's 
mother  was  Ann  Hanks,  who  in  the  early  years  of  the  nineteenth  century 
kept  an  old  cross-roads  tavern  between  Abbeville  and  Pendleton  at  Cray- 
tonville,  where  veilings  of  gray  moss  hid  secrets  in  the  woods,  and  swamp 
forests  glowed  green  and  pink  at  the  first  dawning  of  spring. 

It  is  easy  enough  to  imagine  this  old  ordinary,  crude,  vigorous,  brawling, 
like  hundreds  tossed  along  the  fringe  of  the  frontier,  all  the  way  from 
Georgia  to  New  England — its  puncheon  floor  and  smoke-stained  rafters, 
the  yawning  fireplace,  seven  or  eight  feet  in  length,  a  huge  poker  hanging 


SO  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

at  the  side,  and  next  it  the  flip  iron,  which  sizzled  invitingly  when  dipped, 
hot  from  the  flames,  into  a  jug  of  toddy.  Soft  feather  beds,  country  bacon 
and  buckwheat  cakes,  a  bar  stocked  with  rum,  cider,  brandy,  and  raw 
whiskey  for  the  frontiersman,  who  North  and  South  alike  demanded  'hard 
liquour'  as  well  as  'hard  doctrine/ 12 — these  were  the  allurements.  Planters, 
wagoners,  trappers,  horse-drovers,  and  farmers  met,  mingled,  bedded  them- 
selves down  together  on  loose  blankets  before  the  fire  when  the  rooms  were 
full,  and  talked  into  the  night.  Outside  was  the  sound  of  horses  munching 
and  of  wind  whipping  through  the  pine  trees;  inside  rose  the  voices  of 
free  Americans  who  could  say  what  they  saw  fit,  and  what  they  lacked  in 
learning  made  up  in  conviction  and  originality.13 

Here  in  this  old  tavern,  fragrant  with  scents  of  tobacco  and  home-cured 
ham  and  wood-smoke,  Calhoun  met  the  girl.  Little  is  known  about  her. 
She  is  said  to  have  been  about  nineteen  years  old,  the  youngest  of  her 
mother's  eleven  children.14  She  is  said  to  have  worked  behind  the  bar  and 
passed  the  cornbread  and  'long  sweetnin'  *  to  the  young  lawyers  of  the 
county  circuit  who  stopped  there  from  time  to  time  for  their  evening  meal. 

Calhoun,  it  is  said,  stopped  more  often.  Time  and  again  that  year  he 
was  racked  with  headaches  which  so  prostrated  him  he  was  unable  to  go 
home.  Instead,  he  would  spend  the  night  at  the  tavern,  and  it  became  a 
standing  joke  among  the  lawyers  that  his  headaches  always  developed 
when  he  came  within  riding  distance  of  the  young  barmaid.  Possibly  a 
physician  would  have  attributed  his  ailment  to  his  unhappiness  in  his  work 
and  to  the  years  of  repression  and  self-discipline  he  had  undergone.  At  any 
rate,  a  young  man,  whose  self-righteousness  had  brought  him  to  a  point 
where  he  believed  that  a  Charleston  yellow-fever  epidemic  was  God's 
curse  for  the  inhabitants'  'sins  and  debaucheries,' 15  stood  in  serious  need  of 
deflation. 

The  reaction  came  quickly.  In  later  years,  Calhoun's  friends  marveled 
at  his  youthful  self-restraint  in  withstanding  the  more  popular  temptations 
of  those  tempestuous  times.  He  could  drink  without  getting  drunk,  could 
frequent  the  taverns  and  yet  remain  free  from  brawls  and  gambling  debts. 
Life  for  him  had  been  a  serious  matter.  Burdened  from  boyhood  with  work 
and  responsibility,  he  had  never  really  learned  to  play.  He  had  neither  the 
time  nor  the  surplus  energy  for  casual  romance,  and  was  to  become  more 
and  more  ascetic,  controlled,  struggling  to  hold  his  emotions  'in  strict  sub- 
jection to  his  reason.'  But  now  he  was  only  twenty-five,  and  his  deep  feel- 
ing for  beauty  eagerly  responded  to  feminine  loveliness.  And  Nancy  was 
lovely.  One  account  calls  her  'a  handsome  Irish  beauty';  another,  a  country 
girl,  'said  to  be  possessed  of  unusual  beauty.7 16  She  was  probably  one  of 
those  hard-working,  excitable  women  of  the  hill-country  who  bloom  into  a 
haunting  beauty  before  years  of  toil  and  childbearing  wear  them  down  to 
gaunt  contours  of  sinew  and  bone. 

Evidence  indicates  that  Nancy  had  fallen  to  love  with  Calhoun.  No 


IV  THE  BIRTH   OF   A  PATRIOT  51 

doubt  she,  too,  found  him  physically  attractive.  It  was  his  eyes  and  his 
smile  that  would  have  won  her  heart;  'eyes  glowing  like  stars  at  the  depths 
of  caverns/  a  smile  which,  flashing  across  his  unusually  mobile  lips,  lent 
'something  seductively  winning'  to  his  grave  features  that  made  him 
'comely  in  the  eyes  of  women  and  won  for  him  even  the  friendship  of 
men/ 1T 

It  is  said  that  he  considered  the  possibility  of  marriage.  But  actually  he 
was  probably  not  even  in  love  with  the  girl;  for  his  letters  to  Floride  and 
her  mother,  written  a  few  years  later,  are  all  full  of  the  wonder  and  fresh- 
ness of  a  man  deeply  in  love  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  and  bewildered 
by  the  power  of  his  emotions. 

Here  a  curtain  falls  over  the  story.  From  the  midsummer  of  1807  to 
the  spring  of  1809  there  is  a  significant  gap  in  Calhoun's  correspondence. 
If  a  single  letter  has  been  preserved,  it  has  not  been  made  public.  What- 
ever emotions  swayed  him,  whatever  he  thought,  felt,  and  did  during  those 
months,  can  only  be  conjectured.  We  only  know  that  in  the  spring  of  1808 
he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  all  the  way  from  Abbeville  to  Bonneau's 
Ferry  near  Charleston,  where  he  spent  several  days  visiting  the  Colhouns. 
There  he  saw  young  Floride,  now  sixteen,  'a  very  gay  vivacious  miss/  18 
and  realized  that  it  was  she,  and  not  the  girl  in  Craytonville,  with  whom 
he  was  really  in  love.  He  went  home  in  emotional  turmoil,  for  he  could  no 
longer  consider  the  thought  of  marrying  his  barmaid.  She  had  never  been 
the  choice  of  his  intellect;  now  she  was  no  longer  the  choice  of  his  heart. 

In  a  heart-searchingly  frank  letter  to  Floride,  several  years  later,  Cal- 
houn  admitted  how  'violent'  the  attraction  of  'mere  personal  charms' 19 
could  be.  'His  blood  ran  warm,  always.'  Unquestionably  he  felt  that  he  had 
wronged  the  girl  in  Craytonville  in  some  way,  and  was  said,  in  later  years, 
to  have  'looked  back  on  his  youth  with  regret  for  one  mistake.' 20  A  less 
principled  man  could  probably  have  thrust  her  aside  and  forgotten  her  in 
two  weeks,  but  not  Calhoun,  for  he  was  'keenly  sensitive/  21  and  shrank 
always  from  injuring  the  feelings  of  others.  Nevertheless,  he  was  equipped 
with  a  goodly  share  of  Scottish  realism,  which  warned  him  of  family  obli- 
gations and  family  pride;  of  ambition,  whose  fulfillment  could  only  be 
furthered  by  a  wife  who  could  promote  his  social  as  well  as  his  political 
interests.  Yet  'worldly  considerations'  were  not  the  only  factor  in  his 
decision.  He  knew  that  if  he  were  so  foolish  as  to  marry  a  girl  he  did  not 
love,  he  surely  could  not  make  her  happy. 

He  was  for  a  time,  however,  so  bitterly  unhappy  that  Dr.  Waddel  is  said 
to  have  feared  that  anguish  and  despair  might  permanently  affect  his 
reason.  In  letters  to  Calhoun's  brothers,  Waddel  is  said  to  have  urged 
that  John  be  encouraged  to  'active  outdoor  exercise/  22  such  as  hunting  and 
fishing,  with  the  hope  that  in  bodily  exertion  he  could  find  relief  from  his 
mental  tensions. 

Time  and  the  bracing  air  of  autumn  gradually  swept  away  his  brood- 


52  JOHN   C,   CALHOUN 

ings,  and  with  the  approach  of  the  legislative  session,  new  interests  began 
to  fill  his  mind.  Yet  all  his  life  Calhoun  would  fight  off  a  tendency  'to 
melancholy.7  2S  Lacking  a  balance  wheel  of  robust  humor,  he  was  obliged 
to  force  himself  into  the  semblance  of  optimism.  So  successful  were  his 
efforts  that  at  least  two  friends  declared  him  the  most  'undespairing'  man 
they  ever  knew.24 

Nor  did  Nancy  Hanks  die  of  'a  broken  heart.'  She  was  said  to  have 
'disappeared,'  but  upon  the  partitioning  of  her  father's  estate,  she  turned 
up  again  in  Alabama,  the  wife  of  a  man  named  South,25  She  lived  to  see 
her  youthful  lover  become  Vice-President  of  the  United  States  and  ex- 
cluded from  the  highest  office  of  all,  because  his  wife's  social  pretensions 
would  not  permit  her  to  'receive'  a  former  barmaid.  Did  Nancy  Hanks 
South,  barmaid  at  Craytonville,  laugh?  Did  she  wonder? 

From  what  had  proved  to  be  'a  very  serious  period  in  Calhoun's  young 
life,'  he  emerged,  humbled,  more  tolerant,  no  longer  inclined  to  prate  of  his 
and  God's  judgments  on  the  sins  of  his  fellow  Carolinians.  He  could  under- 
stand now  the  temptations  to  which  human  nature  was  subject;  and  never 
again  would  he  condemn  or  judge  other  men  on  any  but  their  political 
actions,  or  set  himself  up  as  the  guardian  of  anyone's  morals  but  his  own. 
The  young  man  who  came  down  to  Columbia  in  November,  1808,  to  take 
his  seat  in  the  Legislature  had  a  new  maturity,  new  depths  of  understand- 
ing. 


The  capital  of  South  Carolina  was  an  attractive  city  in  which  to  be.  Its 
criss-crossed  streets  of  tawny  yellow  or  rusty  red  were  lined  with  high  brick 
walls,  dripping  with  ivy,  and  large  oak  trees  shaded  the  sidewalks.  Beyond 
the  capitol  several  bare  whitewashed  buildings,  snug  behind  a  wall  and 
facing  each  other  across  a  small  green,  formed  the  nucleus  of  the  seven- 
year-old  State  University.  Columbia  had  its  society,  too,  'refined  and  cul- 
tivated,' 2e  according  to  a  French  visitor;  even  in  November  it  had  tropic 
warmth  and  luxuriance,  with  palmettos,  magnolias,  and  shady,  white- 
sanded  yards  around  the  large  dwelling  houses. 

Shortly  after  his  arrival,  Calhoun  was  appointed  an  'Aide  de  Camp'  to 
Governor  John  Drayton,  with  the  rank  of  Lieutenant  Colonel.27  No  doubt 
he  received  his  share  of  admiring  glances  from  the  Columbia  belles  when 
he  strode  forth,  in  full  uniform,  his  sword  upon  his  hip,  but  with  his  past 
experience  and  future  hopes  he  was  in  no  mood  for  romantic  entanglements. 

The  Speaker  of  the  House  was  Joseph  Alston  of  Charleston,  'short, 
stocky,  rakishly  dressed,  and  smelling  of  the  stable.'  A  low-country  rice 
planter  and  son-in-law  of  the  sinister  Aaron  Burr,  Alston  himself  was  not 
lacking  in  abilities  as  a  tricky  and  resourceful  party  leader.  But  it  was 
Daniel  Elliott  Huger,  who  would  have  attracted  Calhoun's  or  any  new- 


IV  THE  BIRTH  OF  A  PATRIOT  S3 

comer's  attention.  A  striking-looking  man,  his  swarthy  complexion,  brist- 
ling eyebrows,  and  'sardonic  grin'  had  won  for  him  the  title  of  Milton's 
Satan,  cand  all  Hell  grew  darker  at  his  frown.'  Actually  he  was  Charleston's 
typical  'gentleman  of  the  old  school,'  and  his  labored  oratory  of  'short 
sentences  and  long  pauses'  belied  his  dramatic  appearance.  He  was,  how- 
ever, the  unquestioned  party  leader  of  the  House,  and  it  was  to  him  that 
Alston  brought  the  problem  of  young  John  C.  Calhoun.28 

For  Calhoun  was  a  problem.  He  would  not  have  been  old  Patrick's  son 
had  he  proved  otherwise.  He  had  all  his  father's  stubborn  independence 
and  utter  confidence  in  his  own  judgment,  characteristics  which  Alston 
observed  with  concern.  Tm  afraid,'  he  told  Huger,  'that  I  shall  find  this 
long,  gawky  fellow  from  Abbeville  hard  to  manage.7  * 

Mr.  Alston's  estimate  of  human  nature — or  at  least  Calhoun  nature — 
was  perfect.  Calhoun  was  not  easy  to  manage,  and  his  'cutting  tongue'  got 
him  into  trouble  immediately.  In  characteristic  fashion  he  had  leveled  his 
guns  against  as  powerful  an  opposition  leader  as  he  could  possibly  have 
chosen;  and  although  the  opponent  himself  did  not  show  any  concern,  an 
enraged  follower  decided  to  confront  the  'fellow  from  Abbeville'  and  teach 
him  wisdom  with  a  pair  of  hard  fists — or  a  good  horsewhip! 

Calhoun  was  walking  up  and  down  the  porch  of  his  hotel  when  he  was 
warned  of  approaching  attack.  Several  moments  later,  the  self-appointed 
instrument  of  vengeance  rushed  up  the  steps  and  planted  himself  in  his 
victim's  path.  Calhoun,  smiling  pleasantly,  approached  him,  said  good- 
morning,  side-stepped,  and  calmly  continued  his  exercise.  The  other  man 
stared  after  him,  suddenly  'burst  into  tears,' so  apologized,  and  politically, 
at  least,  came  over  to  Calhoun's  side. 

Actually  the  'father  of  fire-eating  had  no  great  appetite  for  flame.' 31 
His  legislative  history  was  so  quiet  that  had  he  not  later  become  South 
Carolina's  'great  king,'  little  of  it  would  have  found  any  place  in  history. 
True,  his  bill  'to  enable  parties  to  give  in  evidence  copies  of  wills  in 
actions  where  the  Titles  to  land  may  come  into  question,'  appeared  to  be 
the  only  measure  of  the  session  of  which  as  many  as  five  hundred  copies 
were  printed  and  distributed  to  the  members.  But  his  bill  'to  provide  for 
the  more  .  .  .  expeditious  administration  of  justice  in  the  Courts' 82  had 
a  vagueness  which  added  little  to  Calhoun's  reputation.  Huger,  noting 
his  struggles  to  draw  up  readable  resolutions,  at  which  he  later  became  so 
adept,  little  dreamed  that  he  would  one  day  describe  the  young  man  from 
Abbeville  as  'the  greatest  metaphysician  in  the  world.' 33  Still  less  did  he 
imagine  himself  delicately  withdrawing  from  the  Senate  of  the  United 
States  that  South  Carolina  might  be  served  by  the  superior  abilities  of 
John  Calhoun. 

Recorded  on  the  House  roll  as  John  C.  Colhoun  (sic)  *  the  newcomer 
attended  sessions  with  reasonable  regularity,  but  occasionally  he  paid  a 
twenty-five-cent  fine  for  failure  to  be  in  his  seat  at  convening  time.  Legis- 


54  JOHN    C.    CALHOUN 

lative  rules  were  few,  but  designed  to  reimburse  the  Treasury  for  money 
wasted  upon  lazy  legislators.  A  member  absent  without  leave  was  sent 
for  at  his  own  expense  and  kept  in  custody.  Breaking  a  quorum  cost  fifty 
cents,  and  the  cashier  promptly  deducted  a  similar  sum  from  the  pay  of 
any  member  so  impudent  as  to  leave  the  chamber  before  the  Speaker. 35  On 
Tuesdays  each  member  was  publicly  informed  of  his  accumulated  fines; 
and  lucky  indeed  was  the  man  sufficiently  wary  to  break  even  on  his 
meager  salary. 

Delvers  into  the  by-paths  of  American  history  can  find  the  notations  of 
Calhoun's  'Ayes'  and  'Nays'  in  the  yellowed,  hand-written  records  of  the 
Legislature  of  South  Carolina.  He  served  upon  a  special  committee  'con- 
cerning illegal  and  improper  conduct  to  an  infant/  36  He  cast  a  minority 
'Nay'  against  the  establishment  of  courts  of  appeal  in  the  state,  and  per- 
sistently and  consistently  voted  'Nay'  on  political  attempts  to  throw  the 
legislative  body  into  abortive  adjournment.  Certainly  in  none  of  these 
routine  actions  is  there  forewarning  of  the  statesman.  But  monotony  was 
not  made  for  Patrick  Calhoun's  son,  nor  he  for  monotony.  His  opportunity 
came;  he  seized  it  unhesitatingly,  revealing  all  the  keen  insight  and  pro- 
phetic power  that  brought  him  to  fame. 


The  scene  was  a  Republican  caucus  meeting;  the  task,  to  nominate  candi- 
dates for  the  Presidency  and  the  Vice-Presidency  of  the  United  States. 
James  Madison  was  nominated  without  opposition,  but  on  the  renomina- 
tion  of  Vice-President  George  Clinton  a  hitch  occurred.  Calhoun  had 
arisen.  He  spoke  rapidly.  American  rights  as  a  neutral  were  being  trampled 
underfoot.  War  with  England  was  inevitable.  Hence,  the  party  must  be 
unified.  Clinton  was  old  and  conservative;  should  he  be  renominated,  he 
would  become  the  nucleus  of  party  discontent,  making  a  formidable  divi- 
sion when  the  country  was  at  last  forced  into  war.  Calhoun's  choice  was 
John  Langdon  of  New  Hampshire,  and  so  strong  were  his  urgings  that  the 
nomination  was  actually  offered  to  the  New  England  statesman.*  With  this 
show  of  power,  Calhoun  stepped  instantly  into  a  leading  position  in  the 
Legislature.37 

What  happened  during  those  two  legislative  sessions  in  which  Calhoun 
served  is  far  more  important  than  his  presence  there.  For  those  were  the 
years  when  the  conflict  between  the  planters  of  the  coast  and  the  farmers 
of  the  hills  reached  the  breaking  point.  The  'backward  and  neglected7 
regions  of  the  state,  so  far  as  their  actual  population  went,  now  out- 
numbered the  old  coastal  parishes.  They  were  not  unaware  of  this  fact. 

*  Langdon  was  'nominated'  by  several  states,  but  Clinton  was  re-elected. 


IV          THE  BIRTH  OF  A  PATRIOT  55 

They  were  loudly  demanding  legislative  representation  in  proportion  to 
their  numbers.  And  they  were  powerless. 

Until  the  Revolution,  as  we  have  seen,  the  up-country  had  had  no  voice 
at  all  in  the  state  government.  Until  1790  its  weight  had  been  scarcely 
felt;  and  even  now  it  was  distinctly  in  the  minority.  Such  power  as  it  had 
had  been  won  by  pioneers  like  Patrick  Calhoun,  almost  by  threat  of  force 
alone.  The  legislative  gentlemen  well  remembered  these  occurrences.  And 
looking  on  the  square  chin  and  stern  lips  of  old  Pat's  twenty-six-year-old 
son,  they  may  even  have  feared  a  recurrence  of  them. 

They  might  have  spared  themselves  their  anxiety.  The  rule  that  no  man 
could  sit  in  the  governing  body  unless  he  owned  at  least  one  hundred  acres 
of  land  and  fifty  slaves  gave  ample  protection  against  dominance  by  the 
wild  men  of  the  hills.  There  was  no  place  for  'mudsills'  in  the  Legislature 
of  South  Carolina.  And  yet  the  governing  gentlemen  knew  that  land  and 
slaves  alone  did  not  insure  either  education  or  a  capacity  for  judgment. 
For  all  their  narrowness  and  distrust  of  'the  people/  the  legislators  were 
not  fundamentally  unjust  men.  They  could  not  and  would  not  turn  their 
whole  state  over  to  the  questionable  mercies  of  the  frontier,  but  they  were 
willing  to  compromise  the  question. 

To  their  surprise,  the  back-country  proved  equally  willing  to  modify  its 
demands.  An  agreement  was  reached,  the  coast  retaining  control  of  the 
Senate,  the  hills  winning  the  power  in  the  House.  New  electoral  districts 
were  determined  with  equal  regard  to  population  and  taxation,  so  that 
money  and  political  power  would  not  necessarily  be  synonymous.38  Years 
later,  Calhoun  was  to  acclaim  this  compromise  as  an  example  of  the  'con- 
current' rather  than  the  numerical  majority  of  the  South  Carolina  govern- 
ment 'not  of  one  portion  of  its  people  over  another  portion.5  Two  great 
'interests'  had  been  given  protection  against  each  other,  and,  according  to 
Calhoun,  this  very  action  was  responsible  for  the  mutual  attachment' S9 
which  grew  up  between  the  two  previously  warring  sections,  welding  the 
state  into  an  unbreakable  unit. 

Calhoun's  future  career  would  prove  how  deeply  this  lesson  in  govern- 
ment had  impressed  him.  A  patriot  was  born  when  the  Leopard  attacked 
the  Chesapeake,  but  a  political  philosopher  had  been  conceived  during 
those  tedious  hours  when  legislators  debated  checks  and  balances,  argued 
and  gave  birth  to  a  doctrine  which  was  to  revolutionize  American  thought. 
It  was  a  device  for  securing  justice  for  all  minority  economic  groups  within 
a  population.  Perfected,  it  was  to  be  Calhoun's  great  contribution  to  the 
science  of  government.40 

Yet  it  was  twenty  years  before  he  himself  knew  it. 


V 
Of  Courts  and  Courting 


IT  WAS  APRIL  in  South  Carolina. 

April,  and  the  pungent,  burnt-honey  scent  of  pear  blossoms  in  the  air, 
garnet  stains  on  the  sidewalks,  where  the  maple  buds  were  falling,  tree 
branches  blurred  in  masses  of  tiny  new  leaves,  yellow  as  sunlight.  It  was 
April  of  1809,  and  Court  was  in  session  at  Newberry.  In  an  anteroom, 
below  the  court  chamber,  a  man  in  dark,  long-tailed  coat,  high  white  stock 
and  ruffled  shirt,  at  his  side  the  familiar  green  bag  of  the  circuit-riding 
lawyer,  dipped  a  pen  and  bent  over  a  sheet  of  paper.  He  was  writing  Mrs. 
Floride  Bonneau  Colhoun,  his  thoughts  leaping  ahead  of  the  eager  quill, 
his  black  hair  tumbled  over  his  forehead. 

Within  a  few  moments  the  courthouse  bell  would  ring,  and  Attorney 
Calhoun  would  hurry  up  a  steep  flight  of  stairs  in  the  rear  of  the  hall, 
entering  through  a  door  beside  the  judge's  platform.  The  chamber  would 
be  small,  noisy,  crowded  with  the  usual  courthouse  array  of  South  Caro- 
lina 'sand-lappers/  heavy  with  the  usual  courthouse  smells  of  dust  and 
splintering  pine  floors  deep  under  trodden  sawdust,  or  oil  lamps  and  corn 
whiskey  and  musty  calf-bound  law  books;  of  clean,  pressed  broadcloth, 
and  of  sweated  linsey-woolsey  and  homespun.1 

To  Calhoun  the  scene  was  entirely  familiar  and  completely  distasteful. 
Yet  he  could  not  leave.  He  could  not  visit  Bonneau's  Ferry  that  spring 
without  'a  considerable  neglect'  of  his  professional  duties.  ,  .  ,  It  is  per- 
haps one  of  the  most  disagreeable  circumstances  in  our  profession/  he 
wrote,  'that  we  cannot  neglect  its  pursuit,  without  being  Guilty  of  ...  a 
breach  of  confidence,  reposed  in  us  by  our  clients.'  He  had  been  Very  suc- 
cessful' in  obtaining  practice,  he  wrote,  but  'I  still  feel  a  strong  aversion 
to  the  law;  and  am  determined  to  forsake  it  as  soon  as  I  can  make  a  decent 
independence;  for  I  am  not  ambitious  of  great  wealth.'2 

He  finished  his  letter.  He  sprinkled  it  with  sand,  folded  it,  sealed  it,  and 
addressed  it.  His  resolutions  had  been  noble.  Duty  before  pleasure.  And 
within  a  month,  in  defiance  of  clients,  resolutions,  and  the  'country 
fever/  *  he  was  in  Charleston.8 

* 'Country  fever*  was  a  malarial  condition  to  which  people  unaccustomed  to  the 
Charleston  climate  were  especially  susceptible  on  visits  to  the  city. 


OF    COURTS   AND   COURTING 


57 


For  John  Calhoun  was  in  love.  Now  there  were  no  doubts,  no  fears,  no 
self-questionings.  He  was  in  love;  he  had  never  been  in  love  before;  and 
he  would  never  be  in  love  again. 


To  him,  his  discovery  may  have  seemed  original.  Actually  Mrs.  Colhoun 
had  been  gently  but  firmly  propelling  him  toward  his  objective  for  some 
time.  Now  she  could  bring  her  campaign  into  the  open.  Even  before  her 
daughter's  maturity,  Mrs.  Colhoun,  in  the  most  approved  fashion  of 
French  mamans,  had  been  searching  for  a  'suitable'  son-in-law.  But  unlike 
the  usual  ambitious  mother,  she  had  no  need  to  find  those  all-important 
symbols  of  eligibility— wealth  and  aristocracy — in  her  daughter's  husband- 
to-be.  The  Bonneaus  of  Charleston  had  a  surplus  of  these  qualities.  With 
rare  wisdom  Mrs.  Colhoun  sensed  the  decadence  of  the  hard-living,  inbred 
young  blades  of  the  low-country.  Floride's  husband  must  be  a  man  of 
virility,  of  mental  brilliance,  possessing  those  more  subtle  and  forceful 
qualities  that  indicate  not  only  success  but  future  greatness.  John  Calhoun 
with  his  drive  and  ambition  was  an  embodiment  of  Mrs.  Colhoun's  goal.4 

Furthermore,  he  was  a  gentleman.  Although  by  die-hard  Charlestonians 
he  was  excluded  from  the  halls  of  aristocracy  by  his  failure  to  choose  a 
birthplace  somewhere  between  the  Battery  and  Broad  Street,  to  the  world 
outside  he  was  a  gentleman.  He  was  a  man  of  education  and  breeding, 
a  planter  and  a  slaveholder;  and  to  the  North  and  West,  at  least,  he 
came  to  epitomize  the  Southern  aristocrat.  But  not  to  Charleston — not  for 
a  long  time. 

Calhoun  was  no  unwilling  victim  of  his  kin.  'If  I  should  finally  be  dis- 
appointed,' he  wrote  Mrs.  Colhoun,  'which  heaven  forbid,  it  will  be  by  far 
the  most  unlucky  accident  in  my  life.  .  .  .  Nothing  can  shake  my  regard.' 5 
As  Floride's  father  was  dead,  convention  demanded  that  a  prospective 
suitor  first  'address'  himself  to  her  mother.  For  Calhoun  there  could  have 
been  no  task  less  difficult.  All  his  life  it  was  only  with  women  with  whom 
he  had  been  intimate  for  a  number  of  years  that  he  was  able  to  break  down 
the  self-imposed,  protective  barriers  of  the  introvert— which  had  left  him 
romantically  unattached  at  twenty-seven— and  reveal  the  deep  affections  of 
his  nature.  The  women  in  his  family  were  always  his  confidantes;  and  the 
stages  were  easy  from  his  mother,  to  his  mother-in-law,  to  his  wife,  and 
finally  to  his  daughters.  Since  that  first  summer  in  Newport,  it  had  been 
Mrs.  Colhoun  whom  he  had  told  'of  the  things  he  hoped  to  do,  and  she 
encouraged  him  in  all  his  dreams.' 6 

To  the  casual  observer  at  this  period,  Calhoun  appeared  'proud  and 
reserved';  in  actuality  he  was  painfully  shy.  It  was  'all  polities'  with  this 
shaggy,  rough-hewn  young  man;  serious  and  intense,  he  had  had  no  time 


58  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

to  cultivate  the  graces  of  small-talk,  nor  to  perfect  his  dance  steps.  Intel- 
lectually he  was  mature  beyond  his  years,  but  emotionally  just  reaching 
his  full  development. 

Such  few  of  his  letters  as  have  survived  show  that  his  reserve  was  never 
wholly  broken  down,  at  least  on  paper.  Even  for  their  day  they  are  stiff 
and  stilted,  and  yet  they  tell  us  something  of  the  young  man.  His  court- 
ship may  have  'brought  out  the  romantic  side  of  his  nature/  but  his  dreams 
of  love  and  marriage  seem  strangely  abstract:  those  of  a  man  idealistic 
and  comparatively  inexperienced.  Eventually  he  is  said  to  have  become 
quite  a  'masterful'  lover,  but  in  those  first  months  he  found  it  'easier  to 
pour  out  his  feelings  to  the  older  woman,  who  had  been  the  friend  of  his 
heart  for  many  years/ 7 

So  we  find  him  writing  to  Mrs.  Floride  Bonneau  Colhoun  in  the  early 
days  of  his  courtship  that  'to  you  I  make  the  full  and  entire  disclosure  of 
the  most  inward  recesses  of  my  thoughts  while  to  all  the  world,  even  to  my 
own  brothers,  I  am  quite  silent.'  He  was  pleasantly  surprised  at  the  novel 
sensations  he  was  undergoing,  but  his  excitement  was  apparently  self- 
generated,  for  he  had  not  revealed  his  feelings  to  Floride.  'I  formerly 
thought  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  be  strongly  agitated  in  an 
affair  of  this  kind,  but  that  opinion  now  seems  .  .  .  wholly  unfounded, 
since  ...  in  the  very  commencement,  it  can  produce  such  effects.  .  .  . 
I  have  a  strong  inclination  to  lay  open  my  intentions  to  the  object  of  my 
affection  by  letter;  if  this  meets  with  your  approval  .  *  .  nothing  will 
prevent  my  doing  so.'  *  8 

At  the  Christmas  season  of  1809,  he  appears  to  have  spent  several  days 
visiting  the  Colhouns  at  Bonneau's  Ferry.  Here  he  must  have  put  in  an 
intensive  courtship,  for  in  his  very  next  letter  he  writes,  'Tell  my  most 
esteemed  Floride  that  nothing  could  prevent  me  from  the  pleasure  of 
writing,  but  that  there  is  so  much  suspicion,  on  the  subject,  that  I  am 
fearful  of  the  fate  of  a  double  letter  ...  in  my  handwriting.'  It  was 
evident  that  he  was  referring  to  Floride's  young  brothers,  who  were  be- 
ginning to  suspect  that  his  relationship  was  something  more  than  cousinly. 
'Tell  Floride  that  neither  time  or  distance  can  in  the  least  abate  my  affec- 
tion, but  that  absence  only  proves  how  much  my  happiness  depends  on  her 
good  opinions.' 9 

Floride's  opinions  were  not  yet  settled.  She  would  wait  a  little  and  enjoy 
the  courtship.  She  was  only  seventeen,  gay  and  high-spirited,  and  although 
possessed  of  many  'solid  qualities,'10  she  was  not  nearly  so  much  like 

*  Several  times  in  Calhoun's  correspondence  with  Mrs.  Colhoun  he  refers  to  let- 
ters written  or  enclosed  to  Floride.  (See  J.  F.  Jameson's  collection  of  Calhoun's  cor- 
respondence, pp.  111-112,  115-116,  and  121.)  Several  writers,  most  notably  G.  W. 
Symonds  in  his  article,  'When  Calhoun  Went  A-Wooing*  (Ladies?  Home  Journal, 
May,  1901),  have  fallen  into  the  error  of  believing  that  because  only  one  of  Calhoun's 
love-letters  has  been  reproduced,  it  was  the  only  one  that  he  ever  wrote. 


V  OF   COURTS  AND   COURTING  59 

Calhoun,  as  a  complement  to  him.  He  could  write  of  his  recent  visit, 
'Should  it  contribute  in  any  degree  to  an  event  I  have  so  much  at  heart, 
how  happy  a  man  I  shall  be/  u  But  Floride  was  in  no  haste  to  make  up  her 
mind.  With  her  slim  figure  and  feet  made  for  dancing,  she  betrayed  no 
undue  eagerness  to  settle  down  into  matronhood  and  child-bearing.  Fur- 
thermore, Calhoun  was  too  familiar  to  her  to  hold  the  romantic  appeal  of 
novelty.  If  he  were  to  win  Floride,  he  must  court  her  at  length. 
This,  he  was  fully  prepared  to  do. 


Already,  one  year  of  belledom  lay  behind  this  graceful,  dark-haired  girl, 
who  was  described  as  'beautiful  in  ...  feature,'  with  all  the  vivacity  of 
her  French  blood,  blended  with  the  practical  common-sense  of  the  Hugue- 
nots. Like  other  low-country  women,  she  would  have  been  pale  and 
shadow-eyed  from  hot  sleepless  nights,  tossing  on  a  silk-hung  bed  draped 
with  pavilion  gauze,  windows  tight-closed  against  mosquitoes  and  damp; 
and  from  constant  attention  to  face  and  arms  with  alum,  rosewater,  and 
Pears  soap; 12  but  actually  she  was  not  nearly  so  fragile  as  she  appeared. 
Apparently  her  mother  was  not  in  the  least  deceived,  and  had  no  compunc- 
tions in  guiding  her  daughter  toward  the  rigorous  existence  of  an  up- 
country  planter's  wife. 

Floride  Colhoun  knew  how  to  dance  and  how  to  flirt,  as  her  suitor  might 
ably  have  testified.  She  could  cook  and  sew.  She  could  make  soap  and 
candles,  doctor  the  sick  and  soothe  the  dying.  For  she  was  a  Southern 
woman,  a  plantation  woman  of  1809,  and  whatever  her  future,  whether  as 
the  bride  of  one  of  those  drawling,  fast-shooting  gallants  of  the  low- 
country,  or  of  the  frontier  lawyer,  John  Calhoun,  her  tasks  were  pre- 
ordained. Judge  of  the  sinners,  teacher  of  the  ignorant,  manager  of  the 
house  and  even  of  the  plantation,  sweetheart,  wife,  and  mother — this  was 
her  career.13  This  was  marriage  in  South  Carolina,  'the  whole  duty  of 
womankind/ 

Marriage  was  a  serious  responsibility,  Floride's  mother  would  tell  her, 
and  marriage  to  a  man  like  Calhoun  would  be  especially  so.  As  planter  and 
politician,  his  would  be  a  strenuous  life,  and  his  domestic  arrangements 
must  be  quiet  and  orderly.  Her  charm  and  beauty  may  have  won  his  heart 
before  marriage;  it  would  be  her  good  temper  and  good  sense  that  counted 
later.  She  must  always  be  ready,  serene  and  unruffled,  to  entertain  unex- 
pected guests,  regardless  of  their  number.  If  he  spent  the  entire  evening 
talking  of  crops  and  politics,  she  must  keep  awake,  keep  smiling,  keep 
ready  to  flirt  her  fan  and  pass  the  gentlemen  their  juleps  or  Madeira.  She 
might  dream  of  'an  independent  sway  over  her  household,'  and  of  unbroken 
companionship  with  her  husband,  but  this  was  only  part  of  the  story.  She 


60  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

might  consult  him  about  such  household  matters  as  really  interested  him, 
but  never  must  she  annoy  him  with  trifles.  If  he  chose  to  spend  an  evening 
crouched  in  his  easy-chair,  lost  in  thought  or  in  a  book,  she  must  wait  in 
silence  until  he  was  ready  to  communicate  his  ideas. 

No  matter  how  tired  she  might  become,  no  matter  even  if  ill,  'a  good 
wife  must  smile  and  clear  her  voice  to  tones  of  cheerfulness'  on  the  arrival 
of  her  husband;  for  men,  beset  by  trials  or  illness,  would  expect  to  'find 
her  ear  and  heart  a  ready  reception.5  -And  if  he  sinned,  if  he  came  home 
roaring,  to  be  put  to  bed  in  his  boots,  or  to  spend  the  night  in  the  quarters, 
not  bothering  to  come  home  at  all,  a  good  wife  must  forget  and  forgive, 
for  the  spirit  of  marriage  could  be  broken  in  South  Carolina,  but  never, 
never  the  letter.  And  the  smaller  sins,  the  sins  of  misunderstanding  that  a 
man  like  Calhoun  would  inevitably  commit — she  must  forgive  these,  too. 
He  was  not  unreasonable;  he  would  wound  through  ignorance  and  be 
surprised  at  having  hurt  her.  He  was  easily  depressed,  given  to  moods  and 
abstractions;  he  would  be  difficult  to  understand.  Floride  must  remem- 
ber to  'forbear  from  self-defense/  whoever  was  right  or  wrong,  'to  hold 
back  her  harsh  answers  and  confess  her  faults,'  for  these  were  'the  golden 
threads  with  which  domestic  happiness  is  woven/ 14 

Floride  needed  her  mother's  training.  She  came  from  the  low,  flat,  sandy 
country  near  Charleston,  from  the  family  mansion  on  the  Cooper  where 
cypress  canoes  loaded  with  rice  floated  languidly  down  the  brown  waters 
toward  the  city,  which  had  been  the  focus  of  her  life.  Hers  was  the  world 
of  town  houses,  of  a  pew  at  Saint  Michael's,  where  the  gallery  was  re- 
served for  outsiders  and  Negroes;  and  of  the  legendary  Saint  Cecilia  balls. 
Floride  could  wander  in  those  fabulous  gardens,  which  those  like  Calhoun 
had  glimpsed  only  in  snatches  through  wrought-iron  gateways,  their  'grace- 
ful tangle  of  rosettes  and  spirals,  topped  by  a  quaint  old  lantern,'  or  pat- 
terned in  urns  and  interlocking  circles,  whirling  around  a  great  wheel.  She 
could  drowse  in  the  shade  of  orange  and  Pride-of-India  trees,  breathe  in 
the  scents  of  arborvitae,  sun-warmed  figs,  and  oleanders,  and  as  late  as 
December,  pick  the  old-fashioned  damask  roses.15  She  would  dine  at  three 
on  boned  turkey,  game,  terrapin,  and  doves  of  blanc-mange  in  a  nest  of 
shredded,  candied  orange  peel,  and  sup  lightly  at  eight  on  a  Huguenot 
meal  of  bread  and  butter  and  fresh  figs.10 

And  Floride  knew  the  other  Charleston,  that  restless,  vibrant  Charleston 
of  the  travelers'  stories,  of  concerts  and  dancing  assemblies,  of  musical  or 
dramatic  evenings  at  the  Dock  Street  Theater  with  its  orchestra  of  French 
refugees  from  Santo  Domingo,  the  Jockey  Club  and  Race  Week,  when  the 
streets  were  thronged  with  planters  from  the  coastal  parishes;  afternoon 
tea  at  the  sidewalk  caf  6s.  And  she  knew,  too,  the  quieter,  more  intellectual 
side  of  a  city  that  boasted  a  library  of  four  thousand,  five  hundred  vol- 
umes, and  a  society  so  close  to  that  of  the  best  in  Europe  that  of  all 
American  cities  foreign  visitors  found  Charleston  'the  most  agreeable.' 1T 


V  OF   COURTS  AND  COURTING  61 

To  Calhoun,  Floride  must  have  seemed  from  another  world.  But  he  had 
no  fear  of  their  differences;  the  lovely  Huguenot  girl  had  brought  a  lilt 
into  his  life  that  he  had  never  felt  before.  'I  am  not  much  given  to  en- 
thusiasm/ he  wrote  Mrs.  Colhoun,  'nor  to  anticipate  future  happiness. 
But  I  cannot  now  restrain  my  hopes  of  joy.  ...  Let  me  add  .  .  .  that 
to  be  so  nearly  related  to  yourself,  is  a  ...  source  of  happiness.  .  .  . 
Sure  am  I,  that  I  could  not  from  a  mother  experience  more  kindness  and 
tender  affection.' 1S 

Though  aroused  by  the  surge  of  an  emotion  wholly  new  to  him,  Calhoun 
was  not  too  far  gone  to  keep  his  cool  logic  from  analyzing  the  girl  he 
loved.  'After  a  careful  examination/  he  frankly  wrote  her  mother,  'I  found 
none  but  those  qualities  in  her  character  which  are  suited  to  me.  .  .  ,19 
Could  I  suppose  that  she  was  ...  fickle  ...  I  should  be  wretched.  But 
there  I  am  happy;  my  trust  in  her  constancy  is  extreme.  The  more  I  ... 
compare  her  with  others  .  .  .  the  stronger  does  my  reason  approbate  the 
choice  of  my  affection.  .  .  .  Heaven  has  been  kind  to  me  in  many  in- 
stances; but  I  will  ever  consider  this  as  the  greatest  of  its  favors.  I  know 
how  much  happiness,  or  how  much  misery  is  the  consequence  of  marriage. 
As  far  as  the  former  can  be  secured  by  prudence,  by  similarity  of  character, 
and  sincerity  of  love,  I  may  flatter  myself  with  no  ordinary  share  of 
bliss/  20 

He  was  happy.  He  was  unhappy.  He  was  'madly  in  love/  a  with  no  out- 
let to  his  feelings  but  the  scratching  of  words  across  a  sheet  of  paper,  and 
half-waking,  half-sleeping  dreams  as  he  tossed  about  on  the  long,  hot 
summer  nights.  Never  had  the  wrangles  and  tangles  of  the  courtroom*  nor 
the  slow-paced  hours  in  the  law  office  so  palled  upon  him.  He  was  twenty- 
eight,  an  ardent  and  self-confessedly  'impatient'  ffl  man;  he  had  waited 
years  for  the  consummation  of  his  hopes,  but  these  last  few  months  seemed 
almost  more  than  flesh  and  blood  could  endure.  'If  possible,  I  will  be  in 
New  Port  next  fall/  he  wrote  Mrs.  Colhoun.  'I  wish  much  that  Floride 
would  consent  to  that  time.  I  will  write  to  her  about  it  by  my  next.  .  .  . 
If  you  know  her  sentiment  I  would  be  glad  you  would  let  me  know  in  your 
next,  for  it  will  be  a  great  inducement  for  me  to  go  on,  if  she  agrees  to 
that  time;  and  .  ,  .  will  furnish  a  good  excuse  for  my  leaving  my  pro- 
fessional business  at  the  fall  court.'  * 

But  Floride  was  coy.  She  manifested  no  desire  to  wed  her  lover  in  the 
fall  at  Newport,  nor  did  she  show  any  interest  in  rescuing  him  from  the 
tortures  of  the  law  court  So  he  remained  in  Abbeville,  working  out  his 
ardor  in  letter  after  letter  to  his  beloved  and  to  his  future  mother-in-law. 
'I  formerly  was  considered  the  most  indolent  in  letter-writing/  was  his 
confession.  'But  now  it  is  my  delight.  I  could  write  you  by  every  mail. 
.  .  .'2*  But  his  persistency  reaped  results;  by  midsummer  Floride  gave 
him  her  promise  that  in  the  winter  she  would  become  his  bride.  Calhoun 
was  ecstatic.  'I  am  not  only  happy  in  the  love  and  esteem  of  your  daughter, 


62  JOHN   C.    CALHOUN 

but  in  the  concurring  assent  of  all  our  mutual  friends,'  Calhoun  wrote  his 
ally.  'How  shall  I  be  sufficiently  grateful?7  25 

With  this  new  impetus  to  his  hopes,  not  even  the  intense  summer  heat 
could  sap  his  energies.  He  spent  weeks  looking  out  'for  a  place'  to  estab- 
lish himself  'permanently  for  life.'  He  decided,  at  last,  on  a  farm  near  his 
brother  Patrick's,  but  reluctantly  postponed  building  until  he  could  con- 
sult the  taste  of  his  future  bride.26  He  even  succumbed  to  an  attack  of 
poetry,  but  his  recovery  was  swift  and  complete.  Every  one  of  his  labored 
verses  began  with  the  word,  'Whereas.' 2T 

Introspective  though  he  was,  Calhoun's  letters  show  that  his  self -analysis 
was  giving  way  to  sympathy  and  solicitude  for  the  girl  who  had  consented 
to  place  her  life's  happiness  in  his  care.  Late  in  the  summer  he  received 
shocking  news.  Floride  had  been  seriously  bruised  in  an  accident.  The 
letter  from  Newport  filled  him  with  'joy  and  sympathy  at  the  same  time. 
Joy  for  her  preservation  and  sympathy  for  the  pain  she  endured.  .  .  . 
Had  her  life  not  been  spared  ...  I  know  not  where  I  should  have  look 
for  relief.  ...  I  never  was  so  anxious  to  see  Floride  and  yourself.'  ** 

Thus  in  hopes  and  reading  and  letter-writing  the  long  days  passed.  On 
the  hillsides  tie  corn  stalks  were  thickening;  the  warm  juice  was  running 
through  the  ears.  The  cotton  fields  flamed  in  seas  of  red  fire.  These  were 
growing  days,  days  when  Calhoun  could  lift  his  shaggy  head  from  the  dust 
of  the  old  law  books  to  scan  his  own  inner  horizons,  to  take  time  out  to 
grow,  to  dream,  to  plan. 


No  mere  state  legislator  would  become  Floride's  husband.  Calhoun  was 
running  for  Congress.  Lovesick  he  might  seem  to  himself,  or  to  the  recipi- 
ent of  his  letters.  Yet  night  after  night  through  this  summer  of  1810  he 
was  out  on  the  stump  at  all  the  little  cross-roads  villages  of  the  district — 
Abbeville,  Greenwood,  Ninety-Six,  and  Hodges — fighting  out  the  battle 
of  the  past  versus  the  future,  of  submission  to  British  depredations  versus 
resistance.  It  had  been  a  three-way  race  at  first,  between  Calhoun,  his 
cousin  James,  and  the  elderly  General  Elmore,*  a  'hero  of  the  late  war,' 
whose  grueling  memories  had  long  since  tempered  his  taste  for  flame. 

Calhoun  was  the  outsider,  the  avowed  advocate  of  the  swamp-dwellers, 
hunters,  and  back-country  farmers,  all  the  rough-and-tumble  hierarchy 
of  the  new  frontier  democracy.  He  was  caught  in  the  surge  of  the  new 
times;  and  from  the  first,  the  trend  was  clear.  James  Calhoun  saw  wisdom 
early,  and  withdrew  in  favor  of  his  young  relative.  Calhoun  was  guilty 
of  no  crime  worse  than  complacency  when  he  informed  Floride  in  Sep- 

*  John  A.  Elmore,  father  of  Franklin  P.  Elmore. 


V  OF   COURTS  AND  COURTING  63 

tember,  a  week  before  election  day:  'It  is  thought  that  I  will  succeed  by 
a  large  majority/  **  for  when  the  smoke  and  fire  had  cleared  away,  it  was 
discovered  that  he  had  won,  not  only  by  a  majority,  but  by  a  landslide  !3C> 


It  was  almost  September  when  Calhoun  sat  down  and  wrote  to  Florida 
the  only  one  of  all  his  love-letters  which  has  been  reproduced  for  public 
view.*  It  was  a  strange  letter,  not  lacking  in  warmth,  nor  even  in  a  cer- 
tain formal  beauty  of  its  own.  It  was  the  letter  of  a  Puritan  idealist,  not 
a  Southern  courtier.  But  there  was  no  doubting  its  tenderness  nor  its  sin- 
cerity. 

/  rejoice,  my  dearest  Floride,  that  the  period  is  fast  approaching 
when  it  will  be  no  longer  necessary  to  address  you  through  the  cold 
medium  of  a  letter.  At  furthest  it  cannot  be  much  longer  than  a 
month  before  I  shall  behold  the  dearest  object  of  my  hopes  and  de- 
sires. I  am  anxious  to  see  you  and  my  impatience  daily  increases. 
May  heaven  grant  you  a  safe  return.  What  pleasure  I  have  experi- 
enced in  your  company,  what  delight  in  the  exchange  of  sentiment, 
what  transport  in  the  testimonies  of  mutual  love.  In  a  short  time  this 
with  the  permission  of  heaven  will  be  renewed,  and  I  shall  be  happy. 
To  be  united  in  mutual  virtuous  love  is  the  first  and  best  bliss  that 
God  has  permitted  to  our  natures.  My  dearest  one,  may  our  love 
strengthen  with  each  returning  day,  may  it  ripen  and  mellow  with 
our  years,  and  may  it  end  in  immortal  joys  .  .  .  time  and  absence 
make  no  impression  on  my  love  for  you;  it  glows  with  no  less  ardour 
than  at  the  moment  of  parting,  which  must  be  a  happy  omen  of  its 
permanent  nature.  When  mere  personal  charms  attract,  the  impres- 
sion may  be  violent  but  cannot  be  lasting,  and  it  requires  the  per- 
petual presence  of  the  object  to  keep  it  alive;  but  when  the  beauty 
of  mind,  the  soft  and  sweet  disposition,  the  amiable  and  -lovable 
character  embellished  with  innocence  and  cheerfulness  are  united  to 
.  .  .  personal  beauty, .it  bids  defiance  to  time.  Such,  my  dear  Floride, 
are  the  arms  by  which  you  have  conquered,  and  it  is  by  these  the 

*  The  most  intimate  of  Calhoun's  family  secrets  belong  to  him  alone.  Only  three 
of  his  other  letters  to  Floride  have  heen  made  public.  Only  three  of  her  letters  to 
him  are  in  his  collected  papers,  and  these  of  little  importance.  It  may  be  true,  as 
Gerald  Johnson  believes,  that  Calhoun  destroyed  all  his  more  personal  papers  before 
his  death,  solely  to  keep  them  from  the  prying  eyes  of  biographers.  Some  of  them, 
however,  may  have  been  hi  the  correspondence  entrusted  to  R.  M.  T.  Hunter  of 
Virginia,  of  which  much  was  lost  during  the  Civil  War.  The  absence  of  these  letters 
leaves  a  gap  in  the  story  of  Calhoun's  life,  which  only  legend,  family  tradition,  and 
a  few  hints  in  his  more  impersonal  correspondence  have  been  able  to  fill. 


64  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

durability  of  your  sovereignty  is  established  over  your  subject  whom 
you  hold  in  willing  servitude.  .  .  .  Adieu  my  love;  my  heart's  de- 

llght^ 

I  am  your  true  lover?* 

By  November  the  'sweet  pain*  of  waiting  was  over.  Calhoun  arrived  at 
Bonneau's  Ferry,  and  for  six  weeks,  perhaps  the  happiest  he  was  ever  to 
know,  he  surrendered  himself  to  the  joy  of  courting.  Informally  chap- 
eroned by  her  thirteen-year-old  brother,  James,  Florida's  cambric-fringed 
shawl  or  'camel-heir'  cape  tossed  over  a  large  basket  of  ham  and  fowl,33 
the  lovers  were  off  for  the  country,  a  whole  day  stretching  ahead  of  them. 

Winter  was  near,  but  there  were  still  'mild  and  balmy5  days,  and  along 
the  river  banks  the  last  few  bronzed  rice  grains  were  waving  in  the  wind. 
Foliage  was  scant  now,  but  red-birds,  'bright  as  if  painted  in  new  colors/ 
flashed  through  the  gray  veils  of  moss,  and  the  salt-marshes  glowed  saf- 
fron and  gold  in  the  sun.34  In  the  long  sweetness  of  these  hours  all  thoughts 
of  politics,  all  frets  and  tugs  of  ambition  were  pushed  from  Calhoun's 
mind.  He  was  the  lover  now,  eager  and  gay;  he  wooed  Floride  with  his 
'sweet  smile/  and  the  voice  that  could  sound  clear  over  the  bustle  of  an 
Abbeville  Court  Day  was  softly  modulated  and  gentle  when  whispering 
words  like  'my  dearest  one/  or  'my  heart's  delight.' 35 

Their  lovemaking,  their  'testimonies  of  mutual  love'  were  stolen  and  in 
secret,  for  their  engagement  was  still  concealed.  But  Calhoun  was  quick 
to  seize  both  the  opportunity  and  the  girl,  once  young  James's  back  was 
turned,  and  the  day  the  boy  discovered  John  in  the  carriage  'slyly'  kiss- 
ing his  sister,  his  indignation  was  unbounded,  and  he  could  not  get  home 
fast  enough  to  tell  his  mother.  To  his  bewilderment  she  expressed  neither 
surprise  nor  anger.  The  secret  was  a  secret  no  longer.3* 

That  day,  the  d$iy  which  Calhoun  had  said  would  be  'the  happiest 
...  of  my  life/87  dawned  on  January  8,  1811.  Here,  in  this  tropical 
coast-country,  there  was  already  a  promise  of  spring  in  the  air,  and  over 
the  mirrors  the  first  pale  sprigs  of  'January  Jasmine'  touched  sprays  of 
holly  and  branches  of  wild  olive  and  magnolia.  The  'great  house'  was 
alive  with  expectation.  'It  was  a  grand  affair,  that  wedding/  young  James 
Colhoun  noted;  'an  old-time  wedding;  everybody  was  there.'  ** 

'Everybody/  meaning,  of  course,  the  clans  of  Colhoun  and  Bonneau, 
all  the  assorted  'kin'  and  'kissing  kin'  from  Charleston  and  the  low- 
country  parishes:  women  in  clinging  dresses  of  'soft  crepe  and  white 
Peelong/  stepping  down  from  round,  velvet-lined  coaches;  men  in  ruffled 
shirts  and  waistcoats  of  white  satin,  swinging  off  their  horses.89  Brood- 
ing 'Brother  Patrick'  from  the  home  farm  in  Abbeville  would  have  been 
there,  and  the  older  brothers,  William,  the  Augusta  clerk,  and  James,  the 
Charleston  shopkeeper,  awkward  and  self-conscious,  perhaps,  marked  as 


V  OP   COURTS  AND   COURTING  65 

they  were  with  the  stigma  of  'trade/  but  aglow  with  pride.  Yes,  they  had 
done  well  by  this  young  brother  of  theirs. 

From  the  wedding  guests,  however,  more  appraising  glances  were  cast 
upon  Floride's  bridegroom.  So  this  was  he,  this  gaunt  young  man,  the  up- 
country  cousin,  who  from  two  brief  terms  in  the  Legislature  had  stepped 
to  the  halls  of  Congress  in  a  single  stride.  Now  the  last  of  the  protective 
barriers  of  the  aristocracy  was  to  be  broken  by  intermarriage.  Pat  Cal- 
houn  had  been  a  tough  nut,  'too  tough  for  the  lowlanders  to  crack.3  Now 
they  were  faced  with  the  challenge  of  swallowing  his  son — or  of  being 
swallowed  by  him. 

Meanwhile,  sequestered  in  her  own  bedchamber,  Floride  had  no  time 
for  fears.  Her  bridesmaids  were  dressing  her,  flying  about  like  eager  birds, 
one  draping  the  floating  veil  over  her  shoulders,  another  pinning  orange 
blossoms  against  her  dark  hair.  Finally,  when  the  last  lock  was  braided, 
the  last  glittering  jewel  slipped  on  her  fingers  and  a  single  rose  placed  in 
her  hand,  the  bridegroom  was  called;  and  for  one  long  moment,  shut  away 
from  the  scrutiny  of  the  guests,  he  could  have  his  fill  of  looking  and  of 
adoring,  taking  with  him  a  picture  to  be  treasured  and  carried  in  his 
memory  always.40 

Then  came  the  wedding,  the  ring  and  the  words,  the  congratulations, 
the  handshakes,  and  the  cry  of  the  girl  who  found  the  ring  in  the  cake, 
for  she  would  be  the  first  to  wed.  And  afterward,  the  marriage  feast,  the 
'old  wine/  the  'intemperate  reveP  of  the  younger  men,  and  the  valiant 
and  alcoholic  attempts  at  wit  and  wisdom  from  the  old.  Twilight  was 
stealing  through  the  windows  before  the  party  arose;  and  from  outside 
came  the  shuffling  sound  of  footsteps  as  the  Negroes  marched  'round  and 
'round  the  house,  peering  shyly  through  the  open  door  in  passing,  and 
singing  such  old-time  airs  as  'Joy  to  the  Bride,'  and  'Come  Haste  to  the 
Wedding.'" 


They  took  no  wedding  trip.  Instead,  they  lingered  in  the  big  house  on 
the  Cooper  until  young  spring  swelled  the  first  buds  against  the  stiff 
leaves  of  the  winter,  when  they  started  for  the  'upper  country'  and  their 
new  home,  Bath,  on  a  ridge  high  above  the  Savannah.  It  was  only  a 
small  plantation,  but  'fit  for  the  residence  of  a  Genteel  family,'  and  prob- 
ably akin  to  those  described  in  the  Courier  with  'three  decent  rooms,' 
and  'two  good  brick  chimnies.' 42  There  would  be  saddle-horses  and  slaves, 
but  Floride  would  have  to  submit  to  a  far  simpler  style  of  living  than 
that  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed. 

History  has  credited  Floride  with  having  brought  'a-  small  fortune'  as 
her  wedding  dowry,  enabling  her  husband  to  devote  his  energies  to  politics. 


66  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

On  'the  settlement  of  Floride's  property/  Calhoun  had  taken  the  advice  of 
his  old  friend,  'Judge  Desassure,'  and  written  Mrs.  Colhoun  that  his  own 
sentiment  was  that  in  marriage  all  property  should  be  in  the  husband's 
name.  Yet  there  is  much  circumstantial  evidence  to  indicate  that  Cal- 
houn's  lifelong  determination  was  to  support  his  wife  by  his  own  efforts, 
and  that  'the  fortune  [was]  herV  alone.43  Either  he  refused  to  use  her 
money  for  common  household  expenses  or  Floride's  share  of  her  mother's 
estate  was  much  smaller  than  is  generally  supposed,  for  in  all  the  years 
of  their  marriage,  freedom  from  financial  care  was  something  the  Calhouns 
never  knew. 

In  that  first  year,  however,  the  couple  were  in  Charleston  in  the  'proper 
season/  Together,  they  could  visit  Coit  and  Fraser's  **  for  final  purchases 
for  their  household;  and  they  were  in  time  for  the  post-Lenten  gaieties, 
with  Floride,  true  to  her  heritage,  joining  a  lively  theater  party,  and 
Calhoun,  true  to  his  prejudices,  remaining  at  home.  They  were  honey- 
mooners  still,  struggling  to  surmount  their  differences  of  temperament, 
taste,  and  tradition;  and  in  this  first  difference,  Calhoun  emerged  the 
victor.  Floride  returned  'not  at  all  pleased/  and  feeling  'less  sickness  than 
what  I  believe  is  usual  in  her  condition.'45  They  had  been  married  five 
months;  to  him,  she  was  his  'dearest  Floride';  40  but  to  her,  he  was  her 
'dear  husband,'  or  'Mr.  Calhoun.' 


VI 

The  Second  ^American  Revolution 


IN  THE  YEAR  1811,  Washington  was  stagnant.  The  adjective  is  descriptive 
of  the  political  and  the  physical  atmosphere.  The  war  drums  beating  in 
the  Southern  and  Western  hinterlands  were  but  faint  echoes  in  the  capital. 
Four  years  had  passed,  but  the  blood-stained  decks  of  the  Chesapeake 
were  not  forgotten.  Embargo,  non-importation,  non-intercourse,  impress- 
ment, were  being  endured  with  less  and  less  resignation  by  the  people 
of  America  as  a  whole.  They  suffered  in  their  homes,  their  business,  and 
the  entire  normal  course  of  their  lives;  but  Washington,  the  straggling 
little  'city  of  magnificent  distances'  rested  comfortably  on  its  marshes  and 
mudflats,  almost  unaware  of  the  effect  that  its  ill-received  political  measures 
were  having  upon  the  country. 

Now  and  then  an  especially  virulent  foreign  insult  caused  a  slight  rip- 
ple across  the  consciousness  of  the  capital.  Old-line  Federalists  wondered 
vaguely  if  mild  little  'Jemmy'  Madison  might  actually  be  forced  into  war 
some  day,  while  equally  listless  Republicans  merely  conjectured  as  to  how 
long  the  President,  with  his  policy  of  inactivity,  would  be  able  to  post- 
pone the  conflict. 

It  had  taken  an  off-year  Congressional  election  to  change  Washington 
to  the  true  capital  of  an  aroused,  virile,  and  increasingly  Unionistic  na- 
tion. 

Through  the  weeks  of  October  and  early  November  they  flooded  into 
the  capital,  frontier  lawyers  and  planters,  riding  in  on  horseback,  walk- 
ing unsteadily  off  packet-boats,  or  stiffly  descending  from  crude  stage- 
coaches. Fully  half  the  members  of  the  House  of  Representatives  for  the 
session  of  1811—12  were  newcomers  to  Washington. 

Although  these  men  were  young,  there  was  the  hardness  of  frontier 
life  on  their  faces.  Their  childhood  had  been  spent  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Revolution,  and  there  was  grimness  in  their  resolve  not  to  let  England 
reimpose  her  authority  on  the  fledgling  Republic.  If  there  was  passion  in 
the  flash  of  their  eyes  and  in  the  curve  of  their  lips,  it  was  controlled  by 
the  responsibility  that  dominated  them,  their  belief  that  they  held  a 
mandate  from  the  people-at-large  to  thrust  aside  the  decadent  and  falter- 


68  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

ing  conservative  regime,  and  to  return  young  America  to  the  virility  of  its 
heritage. 

Although  there  might  be  a  hint  of  the  aristocrat  in  the  proud  lift  of 
their  heads,  in  their  poise  and  self-discipline,  they  scorned  the  knee- 
breeches  and  buckled  shoes,  the  mincing  steps  and  courtly  manners  of  the 
early  days  of  the  Republic.  These  were  plain  men,  simple  in  their  dress, 
simple  and  direct  in  their  objectives.  They  strode  out  like  Indians,  with 
the  free-and-easy  grace  of  men  used  to  long  rides  over  fields  and  through 
woods,  used  to  flinging  themselves  upon  swift  horses  and  riding  twenty 
or  thirty  miles  a  day. 

Their  voices,  their  cadences  of  speech  were  new  also.  Mingled  with  the 
near-British  accents  of  the  'Virginia  Dynasty'  and  the  flat  speech  of  the 
coastal  aristocrats  were  new  voices  and  new  pronunciations.  Washing- 
tonians  now  heard  the  twang  of  the  mountaineer,  the  musical  drawl  of  the 
Southwesterner,  the  soft  slur  of  the  central  Georgian.  New  faces  and  new 
voices,  a  new  power  in  American  government,  all  these  Washington  saw 
and  sensed  and  feared. 

First  business  for  the  newcomers  was  the  election  of  a  Speaker  of  the 
House.  Because  of  its  accompanying  power  of  committee  appointments, 
this  post  was  considered  second  only  to  the  Presidency.  On  the  choice 
of  a  Speaker  might  depend  the  fundamental  issue  of  war  or  peace  for  the 
nation.  That  the  newcomers  meant  war,  Washington  well  understood. 
United  in  their  backgrounds,  they  needed  only  the  additional  unity  of 
political  leadership  to  shake  the  incumbent  Administration  from  its  foun- 
dations. 

United  they  would  select  the  new  Speaker.  He  would  be  for  war — or 
those  who  had  chosen  him  would  displace  him.  Who  would  he  be — Macon 
of  North  Carolina,  Nelson  of  Virginia,  Bassett  of  Virginia?  Doubts  were 
somewhat  dispelled  when  on  the  night  of  November  3,  1811,  the  new- 
comers began  to  gather  at  Mrs.  Bushby's  boarding  house.  There  a  former 
Senator,  now  a  newly  elected  Representative,  had  taken  rooms,  a  tall, 
imperious  young  Kentuckian  named  Henry  Clay. 

The  thirty-five-year-old  Clay  was  not  unknown  to  Washington.  He  had 
burst  upon  the  capital  six  years  before,  a  one-man  vanguard  of  the  West- 
ern invasion.  Although  a  year  under  the  constitutional  age  limit,  with 
characteristic  impudence  he  had  forced  his  way  into  the  United  States 
Senate,  where  he  had  spent  his  time  challenging  the  votes,  opinions,  and 
leadership  of  his  elders,  most  of  them  antiquated  relics  of  Revolutionary 
days. 

Impudence,  indeed,  was  his  outstanding  quality  on  and  off  the  Senate 
floor.  It  was  visible  in  the  very  tilt  of  his  shoulders,  the  flair  of  his  shapely 
legs,  as  he  swaggered  along  the  muddy  streets  of  the  capital,  his  feet 
pointing  straight  ahead  in  his  characteristic  Indian  stride. 

Politically,  his  luck  had  not  been  very  good.  He  had  called  for  the 


VI  THE   SECOND  AMERICAN   REVOLUTION  69 

abolition  of  the  slave-trade,  for  the  annexation  of  Florida,  for  protection 
of  domestic  manufactures,  for  rearmament  and  national  defense,  and, 
above  all,  for  war  and  national  honor.  The  Senate  had  declined  debate 
with  him,  and  had  rejected  the  majority  of  his  proposals.  Unwilling  to 
follow,  he  had  been  unable  to  lead,  and  was  suffering  from  political  frus- 
tration. 

Now  the  wind  had  turned.  Scenting  the  inevitable  approach  of  war, 
aware  of  the  tremendous  shift  of  public  opinion,  Henry  Clay  was  weary  of 
seeing  his  nation  'eternally  the  tail  to  Britain's  kite.'  His  day  had  come 
and  his  lips  were  ready  to  sound  the  trumpet  call  of  young  America. 

So  it  was  that  the  young  War  Hawks'  of  the  'Second  American  Revolu- 
tion' were  wading  through  the  mud  and  drizzle  of  early  November  to  the 
dreary  boarding  house  where  Henry  Clay  was  awaiting  them.  Aware  of 
their  cause,  they  were  discovering  their  leader.  Henry  Clay  had  found 
his  army. 

The  blond  Kentuckian,  a  bottle  of  Bourbon  close  to  his  elbow,  a  con- 
fident smile  on  his  petulant  mouth,  sat  sprawled  in  a  chair,  eyeing  the 
young  Representatives  who  were  filing  beneath  his  banner.  The  names  of 
many  were  already  familiar  to  him:  William  Wyatt  Bibb  of  Georgia, 
Peter  Buell  Porter  of  western  New  York,  Langdon  Cheves  of  South  Caro- 
lina, Felix  Grundy  of  Tennessee,  George  Poindexter  of  Natchez,  Missis- 
sippe,  William  Lowndes  of  South  Carolina,  Samuel  McKee  of  Kentucky, 
John  Caldwell  Calhoun  of  South  Carolina. 

Here  were  young  fire-eaters,  whose  care  for  their  country's  glory  and 
honor  was  as  keen  as  Clay's  own.  They  were  waiting  for  leadership,  and 
he  was  the  leader.  He  spoke  to  them  out  of  a  common  heritage.  'Rocked 
in  the  cradle  of  the  Revolution,'  he  could  remember  as  a  child  of  four 
seeing  the  British  armies  swooping  down  upon  southern  Virginia.  Nor  did 
he  forget  the  British  soldier  who  in  a  hunt  for  concealed  family  treasures 
had  thrust  his  sword  into  the  grave  of  his  father,  buried  four  hours  be- 
fore. And  Clay  did  not  even  need  to  tell  the  group  that  Lord  Dorchester, 
the  Governor-General  of  Canada,  was  already  negotiating  with  England 
for  the  purchase  of  American  scalps,2 

Clay's  emotion  was  contagious.  He  saw  the  brooding  horror  in  the  eyes 
of  Felix  Grundy,  who  had  seen  Indians  kill  and  scalp  members  of  his  own 
family.  Henry  Clay,  the  most  imperious  and  lovable  leader  the  American 
Congress  was  ever  to  know,  was  captivating  the  group  before  him  with 
the  same  weapons  with  which  he  later  won  the  hearts  of  the  American 
people. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  caucus,  one  group  stayed  behind.  They  were 
Clay's  messmates,  young  men  whose  known  talents  and  eagerness  for  war 
had  given  them  advance  reputations  in  Washington.  From  them  Clay 
would  choose  his  leaders;  with  them  he  would  draft  the  new  program  of 
the  American  government.  Upon  their  arrival  in  Washington,  Bibb,  Cal- 


70  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

houn,  Cheves,  Grundy,  and  Lowndes  formed  the  'War  Mess/  3  with  Clay 
at  the  head. 

Already  Calhoun  was  chosen  as  second-in-command.*  It  was  a  strange 
alliance,  for  no  two  men  could  have  been  more  unlike.  Both  were  high- 
strung,  but  the  Kentuckian  was  expansive,  revealing,  eager  for  self-ex- 
pression.4 The  shy  and  introverted  South  Carolinian  was,  on  the  other 
hand,  constantly  holding  himself  in  check,  yet,  despite  this  repression,  his 
whole  being  radiated  dynamic  intensity.  Clay  quickly  recognized  Cal- 
houn's  latent  strength,  saw  him  as  a  valuable  lieutenant  and  potential 
leader  of  men,  but  it  is  doubtful  if  he  recognized  the  genius  of  the  un- 
assuming Southerner,  or  viewed  him  as  a  rival  to  his  own  ambitions.  If  so, 
he  would  scarcely  have  entrusted  him  with  so  much  authority.  Calhoun's 
greater  qualities  were  not  obvious  ones,  and  it  was  impossible  for  Clay 
fully  to  understand  a  man  so  unlike  himself. 

Calhoun,  being  of  a  more  thoughtful  disposition,  had  a  better  though 
incomplete  understanding  of  Clay.  He  vividly  realized  Clay's  talents,  and 
saw  him  as  a  man  to  support  and  follow.  Ambitious  himself,  Calhoun 
understood  that  association  with  Henry  Clay  would  place  him  high  in 
the  group  that  was  seizing  control. 

Calhoun  was  no  starry-eyed  dreamer  at  this,  the  start  of  his  national 
career.  His  ideals  were  high  and  his  hopes  also;  he  would  frankly  admit 
that  *I  love  just  renown.'  But  he  had  learned  his  politics  in  a  tough  school. 
Easy  as  his  election  to  Congress  had  been,  it  had  left  its  own  trail  of 
bitterness  and  disillusion.  In  a  rhetorical  outburst  to  MacBride  in  Sep- 
tember, 1811,  he  had  thanked  his  friend  for  putting  him  on  his  guard 
against  enemies  masquerading  under  the  guise  of  friendship.  'I  love  my 
country  .  .  .  too  much  .  .  .  to  be  subordinate  to  their  selfish  views  .  .  .' 
Calhoun  wrote.  'This  is  my  sin;  this  is  my  want  of  firmness.  This  is  my 
dubious  conduct.'  He  had  failed  to  place  them  in  'lucretive'  political  posts. 
'Want  of  firmness!  I  would  have  supposed  it  the  last  fault  imputable  to 
me.  ...  I  have  ever  stood  obstinate  against  all  local,  party,  or,  factious 
interest.'  He  had  often  advocated  unpopular  questions,  'and  was  deter- 
mined that  neither  private  censure,  nor  that  of  the  whole  community  will 
ever  drive  me  from  the  path  of  duty.' 5 

Calhoun  faced  the  future  forearmed. 


It  was  November  6,  1811,  when  Calhoun  first  looked  upon  the  make- 
shift city  of  Washington,  with  its  aimless  avenues  and  meandering  foot- 

*  Actually  Calhoun  did  not  arrive  in  Washington  until  November  6,  1811,  two 
days  after  the  opening  of  the  session,  but  his  reputation  had  preceded  him,  and  his 
place  of  leadership  was  assured. 


VI  THE   SECOND  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION  71 

paths,  its  tangled  marshlands  and  croaking  frogs.  Even  to  men  from  the 
half-charted  frontier,  Washington  bore  small  resemblance  to  their  pre- 
conceived dreams  of  a  city;  and  to  men  like  William  Lowndes,  who  knew 
Piccadilly  better  than  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  or  even  to  Calhoun,  the  half- 
realized  capital  must  have  seemed  appalling  indeed.  Discerning  men  might 
detect  in  unfinished  buildings  and  grass-grown  streets  that  same  decay 
that  was  rotting  away  the  national  spirit  Still  true  was  the  observation 
six  years  before  of  the  actor,  William  Dunlap:  'No  houses  are  building; 
those  already  built  are  not  finished  and  many  are  falling  rapidly  to  decay'; 
and  Calhoun  with  his  classical  turn  of  mind  might  have  seen  the  capital 
as  Dunlap  did,  like  'some  antique  ruin/  reminding  one  of  'Rome  or 
Persepolis.'  6 

Now,  standing  under  the  double  row  of  poplar  trees  that  lined  Pennsyl- 
vania Avenue,  Calhoun  saw  it  all:  to  the  west,  the  'President's  House/  on 
either  side  the  'two  handsome  Brick  buildings  in  which  the  public  offices 
are  kept,'  To  the  east  loomed  Capitol  Hill,  the  white  blocky  wings  of  the 
unfinished  legislative  building  connected  only  by  a  wooden  runway/ 

Once  inside  the  Capitol  itself,  however,  the  story  was  different  Ob- 
servers might  find  the  Senate  Chamber  'much  more  elegant  than  that  of 
the  House/  but  to  the  'brawling  boys'  from  the  backwoods,  what  the 
House  lacked  in  beauty  it  made  up  in  grandeur.8  The  pillars  were  only  of 
sandstone,  but  of  the  purest  Corinthian  design,  beautifully  fluted,  and  en- 
circled with  draperies  of  crimson.  Stone  steps  spiraled  up  to  the  visitors' 
galleries,  now  packed  with  spectators,  all  eyes  centered  on  the  rostrum  and 
the  great  canopy,  resplendent  with  scarlet  and  green  velvet  and  golden 
fringe.  Above  perched  a  huge  stone  eagle,  wings  defiantly  spread;  below 
stood  the  ornate  chair  of  the  Speaker — Henry  Clay. 

From  thick  skylights  shafts  of  sunlight  fell  against  heads,  bald,  pow- 
dered, curled,  bewigged;  on  coats  of  blue,  green,  or  plum.  The  room  was 
a  whirlpool  of  rapping  knuckles  and  clashing  voices,  of  stagnant  air  and 
stumbling  page  boys;  the  floor  a  litter  of  discarded  newspapers,  letters, 
quills,  and  novels;  the  'turkey  carpets'  stained  with  pools  of  tobacco  juice* 
Under  one  desk  a  pair  of  hounds  lay  coiled;  from  the  top  a  pair  of  pipe- 
stem  legs  slanted  upwards. 

Other  than  the  war  leaders,  Calhoun  would  have  seen  few  familiar  faces. 
Only  a  sprinkling  of  the  veterans  were  left:  North  Carolina's  graying 
'Father  Macon/  with  his  round  pleasant  face  and  his  white-topped  boots, 
and  the  cluster  of  irreconcilables,  the  Federalists  of  New  England:  Bos- 
ton's bitter  Josiah  Quincy,  openly  avowed  disunionist;  dour  Abijah  Bige- 
low,  and  the  fat  and  Calvinistic  Reverend  Samuel  Taggart.  But  that 
weird  figure  with  the  hounds,  long  black  hair  stringing  down  over  a  velvet 
collar — was  he  a  page  boy  dressed  up  in  his  elders'  clothes  or  a  sick  old 
man?  The  frail  form  was  slim  as  a  boy's,  but  Calhoun  could  see  that  the 
face  was  white  and  seamed  with  lines  of  pain,  and  that  the  Indian-black 


72  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

eyes  glowed  with  a  feverish  brilliance.  Calhoun  knew  him  now:  <Mad 
Jack;  Randolph  of  Virginia,  thirty-eight  years  old,  a  nephew  of  Thomas 
Jefferson's  and  once  his  brilliant  young  floor  leader  in  the  House;  now 
in  chronic  opposition,  invalid,  erratic,  embittered. 

First  on  the  agenda  two  days  earlier  had  been  the  election  of  a  Speaker. 
The  balloting  was  brief:  three  votes  for  former  Speaker  Macon,  thirty- 
five  for  the  young  Georgian  physician,  William  Wyatt  Bibb,  and  seventy- 
five  for  Henry  Clay.  That  'clever  man,'  the  Western  Star/  in  the  sneer- 
ing words  of  John  Randolph,  'strided  from  the  door  ...  as  soon  as  he 
entered  it,  to  the  Speaker's  chair.' 9 

Clay  had  arisen,  faced  his  subjects,  relaxed,  poised,  the  sunlight  bright 
on  his  face,  the  gavel  in  his  hand.  He  spoke  a  few  words,  promising  the 
transaction  of  all  business  'in  the  most  agreeable  manner.7 10  He  lowered 
his  gavel.  The  Second  American  Revolution  had  begun! 


Primary  business  for  the  new  Speaker  had  been  the  appointment  of  stand- 
ing committees.  A  Federalist  seized  the  floor.  Should  not  the  appointments 
be  postponed  until  the  next  day,  <in  order  to  give  the  Speaker  further 
time  to  become  acquainted  with  the  members.'  u 

Mr.  Clay  had  no  need  of  such  consideration.  He  was  thoroughly  ac- 
quainted with  the  members  whom  he  proposed  to  appoint,  'and  the  mere 
announcement  of  his  selections  was  enough  to  convince  the  opposition 
that  their  day  was  gone  indeed.  Seniority  had  been  tossed  to  the  breezes. 
Clay  packed  the  committees  with  youngsters  who  lived  and  breathed 
the  spirit  of  war.  Of  the  important  Committee  on  Foreign  Relations  he 
named  Peter  Buell  Porter  of  New  York  chairman,12  but  on  his  withdrawal 
from  Congress  shortly  afterward,  the  members  selected  John  Calhoun  as 
their  acting  head.* 

The  South  Carolinian  shouldered  his  responsibilities  with  gravity.  'Your 
friend  is  now  an  actor  on  the  political  stage,'  he  wrote  the  sympathetic 
James  MacBride,  later  in  the  session.  'This  is  a  period  of  the  greatest 
moment  to  our  country.  No  period  since  the  formation  of  our  Constitu- 
tion has  been  equally  .  .  .  important.' 1S 

President  Madison's  Message  of  November  5,  although  urging  that  the 
Republic  assume  'an  armour  and  an  attitude  demanded  by  the  crisis,' " 
was  nevertheless  noncommittal.  Impressment  was  not  mentioned,  although 

*  Proof  of  Calhoun's  leadership  was  to  be  given  in  the  next  session  when,  in  the 
newly  formed  Committee  on  Foreign  Relations,  John  Smilie  of  Pennsylvania  was 
named  head.  At  the  first  meeting  Smilie  suddenly  moved  that  Calhoun  be  made 
chairman  in  his  place.  Vehemently,  Calhoun  protested,  asserting  that  someone  older, 
someone  from  another  state  would  be  far  more  suitable,  and  that  he  would  serve 
under  Smilie  with  'perfect  willingness.'  But  Smilie  insisted,  and  Calhoun  was  unani- 
mously elected.  (Calhoun,  Life,  pp.  12-13.) 


VI  THE   SECOND  AMEMCAN   REVOLUTION  73 

a  line  referred  to  'war  on  our  lawful  commerce.'  England  was  condemned 
for  her  'hostile  inflexibility';  but  bitter  rebuke  of  France  made  certain 
that  Napoleonic  'assistance'  would  neither  be  offered  nor  desired  in  any 
American  struggle  against  British  power. 

As  anti-French  as  it  was  anti-British,  the  Message  was  more  illustra- 
tive of  Madison's  grasp  of  international  realities  than  of  his  understand- 
ing of  the  American  people.  Vacillating  the  President  undoubtedly  was, 
but  he  at  least  realized  that  American  wrongs  were  as  nothing  beside  the 
threat  which  Napoleonic  dictatorship  posed,  not  only  to  Europe  but  to 
the  world  at  large.  Repeatedly,  Jonathan  Russell  in  Paris  was  warning  the 
President  that  Napoleon's  greatest  hope  'was  to  entangle  us  in  a  war 
with  England,'  so  that  he  might  be  free  to  complete  his  enslavement  of 
the  European  Continent.  Britain,  weary,  alone,  drained  of  her  man-power 
by  years  of  blood-letting,  could  not  quibble  about  the  'citizenship  papers' 
of  so-called  'Yankee'  seamen,  speaking  the  English  of  Bow's  Bells  or 
Yorkshire. 

On  November  29,  1811,  the  Foreign  Relations  Committee  Report, 
largely  although  not  entirely  the  work  of  Calhoun,  sounded  the  first 
official  note  of  war.  It  called  for  fifty  thousand  volunteers,  for  the  arm- 
ing of  all  merchant  ships  and  the  outfitting  of  warships.  'The  period  has 
now  arrived,'  the  Report  proclaimed,  'when  ...  it  is  the  sacred  duty  of 
Congress  to  call  forth  the  patriotism  and  the  resources  of  the  country.' 15 

Public  opinion  agreed  with  Calhoun.  By  December,  foreign  visitors 
might  well  have  assumed  that  the  conflict  had  already  begun.  A  frontier 
skirmish  at  Tippecanoe  on  November  7,  in  which  sixty-eight  white  settlers 
under  the  leadership  of  General  William  Henry  Harrison  had  fallen  to  In- 
dian attack,  was  the  sole  incident  needed  to  set  the  Western  press  off 
into  a  cry  of  'WAR!  WAR!  WAR!'  and  'BRITISH  SAVAGE  WAR. 
THE  BLOW  IS  STRUCK.'16  Nor  was  the  alliance  of  Redcoats  and 
Redskins  mere  journalistic  headline  writing.  News  of  Tippecanoe  re- 
vealed the  seizure  of  at  least  '90  fusees  and  rifles  from  the  enemy,  most 
of  them  new  and  of  English  manufacture.' 17  Here  alone  was  proof  of  the 
ugly  truth,  known  at  first-hand  by  many  of  the  young  War  Hawks  them- 
selves. Square-jawed,  grim-faced  Felix  Grundy  sounded  off  the  Con- 
gressional attitude.  'Why,  sir,'  he  addressed  Speaker  Clay,  'the  fighting 
has  already  begun!  The  Indians  are  up  along  the  whole  frontier  with 
British  weapons.'  Impressment  was  the  issue  on  paper,  the  issue  of  the 
coastal  colonies  all  the  way  from  Charleston  to  Portsmouth,  but  no  back- 
woodsman could  forgive  the  crime  of  English  rifles  in  red-skinned  hands.18 


A  one-man  opposition  to  the  whole  war  program  was  John  Randolph.  Ran- 
dolph was  no  frontiersman.  He  knew  nothing  about  Indian  blood,  save 


74  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

for  the  diluted  portion  flowing  through  his  own  veins.*  Vehemently,  he 
turned  upon  the  'Liberty  Boys.'  'You  may  make  war,  if  you  please,'  he 
chortled.  'I  will  make  peace.' 19 

Life  was  far  from  pleasant  for  Mr,  Randolph.  Disciplined  by  Speaker 
Clay,  daily  challenged  and  contradicted  by  an  impudent  young  'puppy' 
from  South  Carolina,  the  discursive  Virginian  saw  his  rule  sweeping  away 
on  the  flood  of  the  new  congressional  invasion.  That  red-haired,  young 
*Dick'  Johnson  was  the  author  of  a  Rationale  of  Tactic  for  Mounted  Rifle- 
men, which  even  Bonaparte  had  pronounced  'not  bad,'  would  have  in- 
terested Randolph  little;  but  that  Johnson's  octoroon  mistress  was  'the 
most  beautiful  girl  in  the  West'  would  have  made  him  writhe  with  im- 
potent fury.  That  Henry  Clay  was  the  youngest  man  ever  elected  to  the 
United  States  Senate  was  nothing  beside  the  bitter  realization  that  only 
a  few  scant  years  ago  this  bumptious  cockerel  had  been  passing  Italian 
stays  and  imported  brandies  over  the  counter  of  a  Richmond  department 
store.  And  Calhoun,  with  his  talk  of  the  Founding  Fathers  and  demands 
for  the  building  of  thirty-two  new  ships,  his  'haughty  assumptions  of 
equality  with  the  older  members,'  who  was  he  but  the  son  of  an  unlet- 
tered immigrant  Irishman,  a  backwoodsman,  'who  never  saw  a  ship?'  Be- 
tween 'the  tyro  in  the  chair  and  the  tyro  on  the  floor,'  Randolph's  misery 
was  complete.20 

Calhoun  had  incurred  his  particular  hatred,  for  of  all  the  men  in  the 
House  of  Representatives,  the  South  Carolinian  had  alone  dared  challenge 
the  assertions  of  John  Randolph  of  Roanoke.  By  his  colleagues  Calhoun's 
courage  was  regarded  as  little  short  of  foolhardy.  Randolph's  predilection 
for  duels  was  already  a  national  scandal.  Yet  with  a  finesse  that  would 
have  done  credit  to  men  twice  his  years,  pitting  cold  logic  against  the 
Virginian's  bursts  of  fury,  Calhoun  maintained  the  bounds  of  courtesy 
as  well  as  the  strength  of  his  position.  So  far  his  exchanges  were  merely 
in  the  hasty  encounters  of  running  debate,  but  no  disinterested  observer 
failed  to  sense  his  hidden  reserves  of  strength.  'His  high  character  as  a 
scholar  .  .  .  the  Herculean  vigor  of  his  understanding  of  American  liberty 
cannot  fail  to  find  a  most  powerful  support,'21  wrote  an  admiring  cor- 
respondent for  the  Hartford  Mercury. 

He  won  no  support  from  Randolph.  Although  his  own  ravings  had 
played  no  small  part  in  preventing  rearmament,  the  Virginian  now  hurled 
curses  upon  the  heads  of  those  who  would  throw  their  country  into  war, 
unprepared.  Thwarted,  he  even  seized  upon  a  comet  as  one  of  the  'signs 
of  the  times'  that  'bespoke  the  inadvisability  of  war/  ** 

This  procrastination  was  too  much  for  Calhoun.  'Are  we  to  renounce 
our  reason?  Must  we  turn  from  the  path  of  justice  .  .  .  because  a  comet 
has  made  its  appearance  .  .  .?>2S  But  if  Calhoun  was  exasperated,  so 
was  President  Madison,  bending  pale  and  haggard  over  his  desk  until 

*  Randolph  was  descended  from  Pocahontas  and  John  Rolfe. 


VI  THE   SECOND  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION  75 

dawn  faded  his  candles.  'The  Damned  Rascal/  was  the  Presidential  com- 
ment. 'I  wonder  how  he  would  conduct  the  Government.  It  is  easy  ,  .  . 
to  make  speeches.' M 

Day  by  day  Calhoun  watched  Randolph  choking  the  columns  of  the 
public  press  with  his  brilliant,  mischievous  diatribes.  Threats  of  the  in- 
vasion of  Canada  he  countered  with  threats  of  Southern  secession  from 
the  Union;  this  'tid-bit  Canada/  he  declared,  would  destroy  the  balance 
of  power  between  the  sections.  He  discussed  female  card-players  and 
Yankee  peddlers.  He  asserted  that  the  Louisiana  Purchase  would  cause 
both  the  Union  and  the  Constitution  to  'crumble  into  ruin';  and  that  'Tom 
Paine  and  the  Devil  would  not  make  universal  suffrage  work.' 25 

Calhoun  listened  in  baffled  fury.  Temperamentally,  the  Southerner,  in 
spite  of  his  almost  incredible  self-control,  was  a  far  from  patient  man. 
These  months  of  'suspense,  ennui,  and  anxiety'  were  a  severe  strain  upon 
him.  'The  greatest  impediment'  to  his  program,  he  had  originally  believed, 
was  the  President,  who  lacked  the  'commanding  talents/  *  26  to  unify  the 
country  and  fire  Congress  with  the  courage  to  proceed.  But  Randolph  was 
different.  Randolph  was  deliberately  malicious,  deliberately  thrusting  him- 
self against  what  Calhoun  was  convinced  was  the  united  will  of  the 
American  people.  Upon  the  public,  who  read  his  harangues  as  the  voice  of 
Congress  itself,  Randolph's  effect  was  becoming  dangerous.  Never  did 
Calhoun  realize  this  more  clearly  than  in  the  Virginian's  violent  attempt 
of  December  10, 181 1,27  to  disrupt  American  war  morale  before  it  had  been 
fairly  born. 

It  was  Calhoun's  Foreign  Relations  Committee  Report  that  drew  Ran- 
dolph's fire.  Sarcastically  he  demanded  if  the  Report  actually  meant  war 
— war  not  only  against  the  interest  of  the  country  but  of  humanity  itself. 
The  merchants  of  Salem  would  not  sacrifice  their  scant  remnants  of 
foreign  trade  to  a  war  that  would  destroy  the  very  rights  which  it  pro- 
posed to  protect.  Nor  would  the  planters  of  Virginia  be  taxed  for  a  use- 
less conflict  which  would  only  aggravate  their  present  distresses. 

And  what,  demanded  Randolph,  of  the  South's  most  dreaded  nightmare 
— slave  insurrections?  What  of  the  Yankee  peddlers  seeping  through  the 
Southern  states,  poisoning  the  minds  of  the  blacks  with  their  talk  of  the 
Revolution  in  France,  of  liberty  and  equality?  What  of  the  women  and 
children,  alone  on  the  plantations,  open  to  the  murderous  wrath  of  a  slave 
uprising?  How  could  men  talk  of  taking  Canada  when  'some  of  us  are 
shuddering  for  own  safety  at  home?  .  .  .  The  night-bell  never  tolls  for 
fire  in  Richmond  that  the  mother  does  not  hug  the  infant  more  closely 
to  her  bosom.' 

On  he  ranted,  of  Shakespeare  and  Chatham,  of  American  greatness 
drawn  from  British  strength;  and  then,  with  characteristic  lack  of  transi- 

*Calhoun's  comment  was  actually  uttered  in  April,  1812,  but  summarized  his 
opinion  of  Madison,  generally.  (See  MacBride  MSS,  Library  of  Congress.) 


76  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

tion,  railing  against  the  'mother  country/  reminiscing  of  his  own  child- 
hood, when  his  mother  and  her  newborn  son  fled  the  armies  of  the  traitor 
Arnold  and  the  British  Phillips.  Sneering,  the  Virginian  turned  on  Cal- 
houn.  'I/  he  proclaimed,  'must  be  content  to  be  called  a  tory  by  a  patriot 
of  the  last  importation.'  ^ 

What  of  the  cost  of  war?  Randolph  queried.  Had  not  the  Republicans 
pledged  not  to  burden  the  country  with  standing  armies  and  to  pay  off 
the  national  debt?  Shaking  his  finger,  long  and  white  as  the  bone  of  a 
skeleton,  in  the  faces  of  the  War  Hawks,  Randolph  screeched  his  warning: 
'You  sign  your  political  death-warrant.'  The  prediction  was  somewhat 
alleviated  by  his  remark  off  the  House  floor  that  Clay  and  Calhoun  'have 
entered  this  House  with  their  eyes  on  the  Presidency,  and  mark  my  words, 
sir,  we  shall  have  war  before  the  end  of  the  session.7  ^ 

Calhoun  pondered  the  outburst  for  forty-eight  hours,  then  chose  his 
own  ground  for  a  reply.  This  was  wise  strategy;  he  knew  that  in  a  battle 
of  emotions  he  would  have  no  chance.  Even  tempestuous  Henry  Clay  was 
no  match  for  the  erratic  Virginian.  And  wittingly  Calhoun  determined 
to  strike  at  Randolph's  weakest  point,  using  strong  logic  to  devastate  his 
opponent. 

For  this,  his  first  major  address,  the  tall  South  Carolinian  had  dif- 
fidence in  his  bearing,  restraint  in  his  measured  phrases.  But  in  his  austere 
language  and  flawless  logic,  he  was  already  the  Calhoun  the  world  came 
to  know. 

He  acknowledged  that  the  Committee  Report  did  mean  war,  nothing  but 
war,  and  he  believed  that  it  was  so  understood  by  every  member  except 
the  gentleman  from  Virginia.  'War/  he  admitted,  'ought  never  to  be 
resorted  to  but  when  it  is  clearly  .  ,  „  necessary;  so  ...  much  as  not 
to  require  logic  to  convince  our  understandings,  nor  .  .  .  eloquence  to  in- 
flame our  passions.'  But  to  prove  the  necessity  of  war  now,  in  the  face 
of  the  impressed  seamen,  the  shattered  commerce,  and  the  intimidation 
and  destruction  of  American  rights  by  British  arms,  would  be  as  foolish 
as  if  he  were  to  state  the  obvious  fact  that  the  House  was  now  in  session, 
and  then  go  on  to  prove  it. 

'It  is  not  for  the  human  tongue  to  instil  the  sense  of  independence  and 
honor.  This  is  the  work  of  nature;  a  generous  nature  that  disdains  tame 
submission  to  wrongs.  .  .  .  This  part  of  the  subject  is  so  imposing  as  to 
enforce  silence  upon  even  the  gentleman  from  Virginia/  shouted  Calhoun, 
with  the  same  defiance  with  which  he  had  bearded  Timothy  Dwight  in  the 
classroom  at  Yale,  six  years  before. 

More  calmly,  Calhoun  announced  that  he  would  answer  Randolph's 
arguments,  but  only  those,  he  hastened  to  add,  that  were  worth  answering. 
The  opposition  had  declared  the  country  unprepared.  Then  it  must  be 
prepared,  and  swiftly.  Abruptly  he  turned  upon  Randolph,  'who  .  .  . 
for  many  yea$s  past'  had  'seen  the  defenceless  state  of  his  country  .  ,  . 


VI  THE   SECOND  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION  77 

under  his  own  eyes,  without  a  single  endeavor  to  remedy  so  serious  an 
evil/ 

Indignantly  he  challenged  Randolph's  assertion  that  the  people  would 
refuse  to  pay  war  taxes,  because  their  violated  rights  were  not  worth  de- 
fending. 'The  people  ...  are  against  hesitation  and  wavering.  They  are 
not  prejudiced  against  taxes  laid  for  a  great  and  necessary  purpose.'  To 
produce  'the  real  spirit  of  union/  the  government  must  'protect  every 
citizen  in  the  lawful  pursuit  of  his  business.  .  .  -  Protection  and  pa- 
triotism are  reciprocal.7  He  would  scorn  'to  estimate  in  dollars  and  cents 
the  value  of  national  independence.  I  cannot  measure  in  shillings  and 
pence  the  misery,  the  stripes,  and  the  slavery  of  our  impressed  seamen; 
nor  even  the  value  of  our  shipping,  commercial,  and  agricultural  losses, 
under  the  Orders  in  Council  and  the  British  .  .  .  blockade/ 

Calhoun's  self -consciousness  had  left  him.  He  drew  his  thin  frame  erect; 
his  eyes  darkened;  his  voice  rang  clear  across  the  Chamber.  Slave  up- 
risings would  be  ridiculous,  with  a  whole  nation  on  armed  guard.  Person- 
ally, he  doubted  that  Southern  slaves  had  ever  heard  of  the  French 
Revolution.  Charges  that  the  Southwest  was  for  war  because  of  the  de- 
clining prices  of  hemp  and  cotton  were  'base  and  unworthy/  Nevertheless, 
the  South  had  no  desire  to  be  relegated  to  the  colonial  state,  even  for 
the  benefit  of  England.  And  she  was  for  a  war  of  defense,  not  aggression,  a 
defense  of  violated  rights. 

•  If  the  gentleman  from  Virginia  really  wanted  to  'promote  the  cause 
of  humanity/  Calhoun  suggested,  'let  his  eloquence  be  addressed  to  Lord 
Wellesley  or  Mr.  Percival,  and  not  the  American  Congress.  Tell  them  if 
they  persist  in  such  daring  ,  .  .  injury  that,  however  inclined  to  peace/ 
our  nation  'will  be  bound  in  honor  ...  to  resist  .  .  .  that  .  .  .  war 
will  ensue,  and  that  they  will  be  answerable  for  all  its  ...  misery/ so 

The  House  broke  ranks.  The  War  Hawks  swarmed  around  their  cham- 
pion, battling  to  shake  his  hand.  From  the  gallery,  Thomas  Ritchie',  bril- 
liant young  editor  of  the  Richmond  Enquirer,  wrote  down  that  the  South 
Carolina  speaker  would  become  'one  of  the  master-spirits,  who  stamp 
their  names  upon  the  age  in  which  they  live/  n  It  was  Calhoun's  audacity 
which  won  admiration,  the  courage  of  a  young  and  inexperienced  mem- 
ber who  had  dared  touch  the  untouchable,  to  measure  his  intellect  against 
Randolph's  emotion  and  emerge  victorious.  But  his  triumph  was  not 
complete. 

For  the  moment,  he  had  silenced  his  opponent;  but  Calhoun  had  failed 
to  answer  Randolph's  most  telling  argument:  that  the  merchants  of  New 
England  would  not  support  a  war  which  destroyed  their  commerce.  He 
had  no  answer.  Yet  he  had  reason  for  misjudging  New  England's  taste 
for  conflict.  Was  not  the  Newburyport,  Massachusetts,  Herald,  in  that 
very  fall  of  1811  trumpeting:  'If  it  be  necessary  in  defense  of  our  in- 
jured country  to  take  up  arms,  let  us  know  the  worst  of  it?  The  popular 


78  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

pulse  .  .  .  beats  high.  Should  the  National  Legislature  ,  .  ,  dilly-dally 
.  .  .  should  they  fail  to  come  to  some  decisive  conclusion  ...  we  fear 
that  an  insulted  and  exasperated  nation  will  endure  it  no  longer.' S2  Was 
not  even  the  former  President,  John  Adams,  contending  that  for  all  its 
surface  bickering,  the  nation  was  never  'better  united*?  Calhoun's  own 
idealistic  contempt  for  'low  and  calculating  avarice'  had  betrayed  him. 
Not  all  of  Randolph's  warnings  had  convinced  him  that  violated  rights 
were  nothing  to  New  England  beside  the  practical  fact  that  war  would 
destroy  the  last  of  the  scanty  commerce  left  her  by  blockades  and  em- 
bargo. In  Calhoun's  opinion,  the  ccommon  danger'  would  unite  all.  'Tie 
down  a  hero  and  he  feels  the  puncture  of  a  pin,  but  throw  him  into  battle, 
and  he  is  scarcely  sensible  of  vital  gashes.' 8S 


Blissfully  unimpressed  by  the  rising  storm  was  Augustus  J.  Foster,  His 
Britannic  Majesty's  representative  in  Washington.  'No  person  appears 
to  receive  less  impression  from  our  measures  than  the  British  Minister,' 
wrote  J.  A.  Bayard  in  February,  1812.  'He  gives  dinners  to  Gentlemen 
of  all  Parties  in  the  most  friendly  style  possible.'  Dinner  was  'displayed 
on  tables  spread  in  four  different  rooms,'  and  apparently  Foster,  who  was 
not  lacking  in  his  own  brand  of  humor,  derived  a  superior  British  enjoy- 
ment from  the  spectacle  of  the  recent  backwoods  graduates  from  buck- 
skin into  broadcloth  gorging  themselves  on  his  canvasback  ducks  and 
directing  tentative  sniffs  at  his  ices.  Even  Foster  must  have  had  dif- 
ficulty in  maintaining  his  'British  tranquillity/  when  guests  at  one  of 
his  dinner  parties  mistook  the  caviar  for  'excessively  nasty'  black  rasp- 
berry jam,  and  'spit  it  out'  at  the  first  mouthful.84 

At  first,  Calhoun  attended  few  of  these  functions.  He  had  been 
burdened  with  a  'load  of  anxiety'  on  leaving  Floride  and  his  newborn 
'little  son  at  so  critical  a  period/  and  on  receiving  letters  from  home  was 
almost  frightened  to  open  them  'for  fear  that  all  was  not  well.  ...  I  am 
as  comfortably  fixed  here  as  I  could  be,'  he  wrote  his  mother-in-law,  'and 
have  nothing  to  render  me  uneasy  but  my  solicitude  for  those  I  have  left 
behind.  .  .  .  This  place  is  quite  gay  .  .  .  but  I  do  not  participate  in  it 
much  myself.'  * 

As  the  session  wore  on,  however,  Calhoun's  taste  for  solitude  wore  off. 
He  was  only  twenty-nine,  eager  and  energetic,  not  constituted  to  stay 
alone  in  his  room  writing  letters  night  after  night.  Reckless  of  the  're- 
quirements of  good  breeding,'  as  Jack  Randolph  might  be  in  the  House, 
who  was  more  fascinating  as  a  dinner  companion?  He  had  friends  who 
had  known  Nelson  from  childhood  and  'seen  Fox  naked';  he  could  leap 
from  denunciation  of  Napoleon  as  'the  arch-fiend  ...  of  mankind'  to  a 
story  of  the  jolly  parson  who  cheated  at  cards.8*  There  was  escape  for 


VI  THE   SECOND  AMERICAN   REVOLUTION  79 

Calhoun  and  the  'War  Boys,5  too,  in  small  parties  at  the  'President's 
House/  where  talk  of  the  spring  snowfall  in  North  Carolina,  the  earth- 
quake in  Caracas,  or  the  new  French  coffee  made  from  sugar  beets,  flowed 
easily  over  glasses  of  ginger-wine;  and  at  dinner  at  Mrs.  Bushby's,  with 
the  whole  mess  entertaining  Mr.  Foster,  now  bandying  'ill-timed'  jests 
on  the  imminence  of  their  guest's  departure,  now  vying  with  one  another 
to  purchase  his  imported  wines.  'I/  declared  the  British  Minister,  in 
secret  exasperation,  'am  tired  of  Washington  and  the  Congress.' 87 

Calhoun  exchanged  greetings  with  Foster  at  the  'Queen's  Birthday 
Ball,'  to  which  the  War  Mess  was  invited  for  a  surface  appearance  of  im- 
partiality, and  again  at  the  banquet  celebrating  Louisiana's  admission  to 
the  Union,  with  champagne  corks  popping  from  a  corner,  and  Robert 
Wright  singing  a  'b — y  song/  and  giving  a  'b — y  toast.'  Although  Cal- 
houn sought  relief  from  the  constant  'state  of  suspense/  he  could  not  re- 
lax, even  at  play.  In  the  'cool  decided  tone  of  a  man  resolved/  he  bit- 
terly told  Foster  that  'the  Merchants  would  put  up  with  any  wrong  and 
thought  only  of  gain,  but  a  Government  should  give  protection/  88 


With  every  month,  however,  the  war  machine  rolled  slowly  on.  On  Jan- 
uary 31,  1812,  an  Army  'Volunteer'  Bill  was  rammed  through  in  the 
House,  but  when  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  Gallatin  appeared  in  person 
to  recommend  that  the  sum  of  five  million  dollars  be  raised  by  'internal 
taxes/  war  fever  cooled  instantly.  'Nothing  has  depressed  the  war  spirit 
more  than  the  frightful  exhibit  made  by  Gallatin  of  war  taxes/  wrote  one 
observer.  'Many  who  voted  for  the  Army  Bill  will  not  vote  for  the 
taxes.7  39 

Henry  Clay,  however,  spoke  the  truth.  'If  pecuniary  considerations 
alone  are  to  govern/  he  had  told  the  House  on  December  31,  speaking  for 
the  Army  Bill,  'there  is  sufficient  motive  for  war  ...  the  real  cause  of 
British  aggression  is  ...  to  destroy  a  rival.  .  .  .  She  sickens  at  your 
prosperity.'  That  England  was  locked  in  a  death-grip  with  'the  arch- 
enemy of  mankind'  was  none  of  our  concern.  American  rights  had  been 
invaded;  French  aggressions  were  beside  the  issue.  'Must  we  drink 
British  poison  that  we  may  avoid  an  imaginary  French  dose?'40  de- 
manded the  outraged  Kentuckian. 

Eloquence  such  as  this  silenced  the  floor,  hushed  the  galleries.  Men 
leaned  forward  eagerly,  heard  again  the  echoes  of  '76  and  the  young 
'fathers'  of  the  infancy  of  the  Republic.  True,  there  were  those  who 
sensed  uncertainty  behind  the  bluster,  who  knew  the  young  War  Hawks' 
fear  of  being  scorned  by  that  very  England  they  pretended  to  despise; 
and  that  underneath  the  coming  war  burned  the  old,  old  war  between  age 
and  youth.  But  there  were  others  who  thrilled  to  Harry  Clay's  soaring 


80  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

eloquence  and  saw  in  the  thoughtful  but  'spirited'  Calhoun  'one  of  the 
sages  of  the  old  Congress,  with  all  the  graces  of  youth.' tt 


The  tide  was  turning,  but  in  Calhoun's  opinion  it  was  turning  slowly. 
These  had  been  tense  weeks  during  this  spring  of  1812,  with  early  heat 
swathing  Washington  in  a  damp,  clinging  blanket,  with  Calhoun  chafing 
at  the  divisions  in  Madison's  Cabinet,  and  'constantly  urging  on  the  re- 
luctant executive.7  42 

Madison's  reluctance  was  indeed  extreme.  As  late  as  March  he  was 
still  daring  to  hope  that  if  war  came,  it  would  be  with  France  and  not 
with  England.  A  ninety-day  embargo  on  British  commerce,  passed  by 
Congress  and  signed  by  the  President  on  April  4,  was  acknowledged  by 
Madison  himself,  in  a  letter  to  Jefferson  the  day  before,  as  'a  step'  **  to 
war.  Yet  privately  Madison  was  still  promising  Foster  that  the  door  of 
reconciliation  would  be  held  open! 

Not  until  April  18  could  Calhoun  write  to  James  MacBride  that  war 
was  'now  seriously  determined  upon.'  **  One  month  later,  Madison  was 
renominated  for  President  of  the  United  States,  and  between  the  two 
dates  runs  a  series  of  events  which  adds  no  luster  to  James  Madison's  fame. 

The  war  group  controlled  the  Republican  Party.  For  Madison  the 
choice  was  plain — war  or  defeat — and  his  biographer  is  frank  in  stating 
that  his  nomination  was  'the  price'  of  a  change  of  policy.45  To  insure 
his  second  term  in  the  'President's  Palace/  the  Father  of  the  Constitution 
surrendered  his  country  to  war. 

By  May,  eighty-two  of  the  War  Hawks  met  to  plan  the  'new  States  to 
be  cut  out  of  Canada/  and  to  proclaim  the  Virginia  families  like  the 
Randolphs  ruined  by  too  much  'good  living/  From  the  House  gallery 
Augustus  Foster  watched  proceedings  with  mounting  despair.  'Young 
men  .  .  .  violent  measures'  was  his  own  youthful  verdict.  'Mr.  CaJhoun 
and  his  Friends  .  .  .  seemed  to  have  great  confidence  and  were  very 
cool  and  decided  upon  the  question  of  going  to  war.'  ** 

Actually  the  War  Boys  were  less  cool  than  they  looked.  And  on  a  soggy 
day  in  May,  when  John  Randolph  climaxed  two  months  of  irrelevant  and 
abusive  tirades  with  a  long  discourse  on  the  evils  of  Napoleon,  Calhoun's 
patience  broke.  'Hotly/  he  silenced  the  buzzing  of  the  Virginia  gadfly  with 
a  sharp  call  to  order.  Why  'was  the  honorable  member  speaking?  There 
was  no  question  before  the  House.'  Caught,  Randolph  stammered  that  he 
was  making  remarks  prefatory  to  a  resolution.  He  thanked  the  gentle- 
man for  the  interruption.  It  had  given  him  a  chance  for  rest. 

'As  the  gentleman  is  so  grateful  for  his  rest,  I  will  give  him  some  more/ 
snapped  Calhoun.  'Do  not  the  rules  of  the  House  require  that  a  resolu- 


VI  THE   SECOND  AMERICAN   REVOLUTION  81 

tion  shall  be  laid  before  the  Speaker  in  writing  before  remarks  are  made  on 
it?' 

Randolph  hesitated,  and  up  popped  Speaker  Clay.  Invoking  a  long- 
forgotten  rule,  he  ordered  the  marathon  orator  to  submit  his  resolution 
in  writing.  A  moment  later,  the  House  made  short  shift  of  it  and  him, 
voting  down  by  a  count  of  72  to  37  his  contention  that  'it  was  inex- 
pedient to  resort  to  war.'47  For  the. madcap  Virginian  his  reign  of  four- 
teen years  was  over. 

8 

On  June  1,  1812,  Calhoun  received  a  letter  from  Secretary  Monroe,  which 
'he  gave  to  Grundy  who  looked  grave.'  **  That  same  day  the  President's 
Message  arrived.  It  was  conclusive  this  time.  Now  at  last  England  was 
charged  with  'violating  the  American  flag  on  the  great  highway  of  nations 
.  .  .  seizing  and  carrying  off  persons  sailing  under  it.'49  Violated  coasts, 
plundered  commerce,  Indians  and  Canadians  plotting  against  American 
sovereignty — the  charges  were  old,  but  sufficed. 

Calhoun's  War  Report  was  submitted  from  the  Foreign  Relations  Com- 
mittee, June  3.  The  House  approved  immediately,  79  to  49,  but  for  two 
more  weeks  the  question  hung  fire  in  the  Senate.  All  were  'dumb  on  the 
subject  of  politics.' 50  At  an  evening  party  on  the  seventeenth,  Calhoun  had 
<a  long  tiresome  conversation'  with  Foster  on  Spain  and  Portugal,  any- 
thing and  everything  to  avoid  the  one  subject  of  which  everyone  was 
thinking  and  which  everyone  wanted  to  discuss.51 

It  was  all  over:  The  Senate  had  balloted  that  very  day — by  an  ominous 
vote  of  19  to  13,  but  the  verdict  was  clear-cut.  The  next  morning  the  bill 
was  referred  back  to  the  House  for  concurrence  in  amendments,  and 
signed  by  Madison  a  few  hours  later.52  That  evening  Foster  made  his 
last  call  at  the  Presidential  Mansion,  saw  Madison  'ghastly  pale,'  flanked 
on  either  side  by  the  'flushed  and  smiling'  Clay  and  Calhoun.  They  were 
'all  shaking  hands.5  M  The  first  battle  had  been  won. 


VII 

Young  Hercules 


YOUNG  BILLY  PHILLIPS  swung  to  the  saddle,  gouged  his  heels  into  his 
horse,  and  was  off  'in  a  cloud  of  dust,  his  horse's  tail  and  his  own  long 
hair  streaming  ...  in  the  wind.'  Mile  after  mile,  hour  after  hour,  day 
after  day,  he  galloped  on,  stopping  only  to  leap  from  a  steaming  horse 
to  a  fresh  one,  to  seize  a  few  mouthfuls  of  food,  a  few  hours  of  sleep, 
and  then  on  again.  He  tore  through  town  after  town,  fifteen  hundred 
miles  in  twenty  days,  swinging  his  wallet  over  his  head  as  he  neared  the 
taverns  and  shouting  across  the  wind:  'Here's  the  stuff!  Wake  up!  War! 
War  with  England!  War!'  And  then  he  was  gone,  President  Madison's 
little  express  courier,  who  roused  the  Southwestern  frontier  just  as  Revere 
had  roused  New  England  a  generation  before,  gone  in  a  ringing  of  hooves 
and  a  swirl  of  dust,  back  into  the  oblivion  from  which  he  had  come.1 

War!  This  was  the  news  the  Southwest  had  been  waiting  for.  Not 
healed,  but  festering  still  were  the  terrible  wounds  of  thirty-odd  years  be- 
fore; the  memories  of  burnings  and  massacres,  to  be  rekindled  again  for 
this  war  in  the  late  summer  of  1813,  when  at  Fort  Mims  on  the  Indian 
frontier  a  'heap  of  ruins  ghastly  with  human  bodies'  would  send  a  shud- 
der across  the  nation.2  This  horror,  the  Southwest  believed,  was  as  much 
the  work  of  the  British  as  of  the  Redskins.  And  for  a  chance  of  sweeping 
British  and  Indians  alike  back  from  the  American  borders,  back  even 
from  Canada  itself,  no  war  was  too  terrible  to  endure. 

At  Nashville,  Tennessee,  a  stocky  horseman  turned  toward  a  nearby 
plantation.  At  'The  Hermitage'  the  scene  was  peaceful.  Outside,  the  rain 
was  falling  and  inside,  before  the  fire  sat  Andrew  Jackson,  lean,  red- 
haired,  forty-four  years  old,  between  his  sharp  knees  a  baby  boy  and  a 
lamb.  And  as  Thomas  Hart  Benton  of  the  Tennessee  militia  stripped  off 
his  coat,  his  embarrassed  host  explained  that  'the  child  had  cried  because 
the  lamb  was  out  in  the  cold,  and  begged  him  to  bring  it  in.'  * 

Peace  was  ended  for  that  evening.  Planter  Jackson  received  Benton's 
news  with  the  same  fierce  enthusiasm  that  his  fellow  Westerners  had 
shown.  No  one  knew  war  better  than  Andrew  Jackson.  He  was  only  fifteen 
when  the  Revolution  ended,  but  it  had  cost  him  bitterly.  It  had  taken 
his  mother  and  his  two  brothers.  It  had  wrecked  his  health,  stripped  him 


yn          YOUNG  HERCULES  83 

of  boyhood  and  all  its  illusions.  He  had  been  beaten  and  wounded,  im- 
prisoned and  diseased.  He  had  become  a  hardened  veteran  before  his 
sixteenth  birthday,  with  hatred  seared  into  his  memory.  And  for  a  chance 
at  revenge,  he  would  face  it  all  again.  Nothing  could  happen  to  him  worse 
than  what  he  had  already  undergone. 
Vehemently,  he  inked  his  pen: 

Citizens!  .  .  .  the  martial  hosts  .  .  .  are  summoned  to  the  tented 
fields.  .  .  . 

Are  we  the  titled  slaves  of  George  the  third?  the  military  conscripts 
of  Napoleon?  or  the  frozen  peasants  of  the  Russian  Csar?  No — we  are 
the  jree  born  sons  of .  .  .  the  only  republick  now  existing  in  the 
world.  .  .  . 

We  are  going  to  fight  for  re-establishment  of  our  national  char- 
acter .  .  .  jor  the  protection  of  our  maritime  citizens,  and  the  rights 
of  free  trade/41 


Since  the  November  morning  when  Henry  Clay  of  Kentucky  had  swag- 
gered up  to  the  Speaker's  stand  and  with  the  first  stroke  of  his  gavel 
sounded  the  drums  of  war,  eight  months  had  passed.  America  was  at  war. 
America,  with  a  navy  of  fifteen  seagoing  ships,  with  an  army  of  less  than 
ten  thousand  men,  staffed  by  motheaten  relics  of  the  Revolution,  had 
dared  challenge  'Mother  England/  the  greatest  power  on  earth.  It  was  a 
wild  gesture,  foolhardy,  unbelievable.  But  it  was  typically  and  boldly 
American. 

Congress  reconvened  in  September,  1812.  Only  then  was  the  news  of 
the  first  American  victories  beginning  to  trickle  into  the  capital.  The 
tiny  fleet  had  indeed  done  well.  Commodore  Rodgers  had  been  wounded 
off  Jamaica  in  the  first  battle  of  the  war,  but  in  a  month's  time  his  small 
squadron  had  taken  seven  prizes  and  recaptured  an  American  vessel.  On 
September  7,  Captain  David  Porter's  Essex  returned  to  New  York,  with 
a  total  of  ten  prizes.  Scantily  armed,  but  with  a  hard-bitten  crew  brandish- 
ing cutlasses,  the  Essex  had  captured  a  transport  of  two  hundred  men, 
and  later  disarmed  the  British  ship  Alert.  Most  spectacular  of  all  had 
been  the  triumphs  of  the  Constitution,  which  in  July  in  a  wild  three-day 
chase  had  outdistanced  an  overwhelming  British  force  of  fifteen  ships. 
One  month  later,  the  vessel  staggered  into  Boston  Harbor,  a  battered 
wreck,  loaded  down  with  two  hundred  and  fifty  British  prisoners  of  war. 
She  had  clashed  with  the  great  Guerribre  on  August  19,  and  after  endur- 
ing twenty  minutes  of  murderous  fire,  the  British  ship  had  struck  her 
colors. 

In  the  sitting  room  of  their  new  lodgings  at  Mrs.  Verplanck's  boarding 


84  JOHN  C.  CALHOUN 

house,  Clay,  Calhoun,  Lowndes,  and  Cheves  heard  the  news,  sprang  to 
their  feet,  joined  hands,  and  danced  a  jig  of  rejoicing  across  the  floor.5 
Calhoun,  as  'the  uniform  advocate  of  a  Navy/  could  take  his  full  share 
of  the  glory. 

But  there  was  another — and  a  more  sobering — side  to  the  picture.  Up 
in  Michigan  the  aging  General  William  Hull  had  begun  the  war  by  sur- 
rendering Detroit  without  a  shot.  Elderly  Major-General  Henry  Dearborn 
had  marched  into  Canada  and  marched  out  again,  his  men  having  fired 
on  each  other  instead  of  on  the  enemy.  Calhoun  was  in  near  despair,  his 
mind  'in  such  a  state  of  perplexity7  that  it  discouraged  him  from  writing 
even  to  James  MacBride  until  well  into  December.  'Our  officers  are  most  in- 
competent men/  he  bitterly  confided  to  his  friend.  'I  do  believe  the 
Executive  will  have  to  make  a  disgraceful  peace.'  He  felt  himself  obliged, 
however,  'to  give  the  Administration  support  on  the  war ;  when  I  have  not 
the  least  confidence  in  them.' 6  The  tragedies  of  the  military  had  indeed 
been  crushing  to  the  personal  and  national  pride  of  a  man  who  had 
predicted  that  within  four  weeks  from  the  declaration  of  war  the  whole 
of  upper  and  part  of  lower  Canada  would  be  in  American  hands.7 


More  battles  were  waiting  on  the  floor  of  Congress.  A  newcomer  took  his 
seat  in  the  House  that  spring,  a  swarthy  man  with  high  cheekbones,  coarse 
black  hair,  and  eyes  black  and  burning  £as  anthracite.'  His  manner  was 
'haughty,  cold,  and  over-bearing';  in.  appearance  he  was  as  striking  as 
Calhoun  himself,  but  there  was  a  theatrical  quality  about  him  which 
some  observers  found  displeasing.  At  first  glance  he  seemed  unusually 
tall;  actually  he  was  not  more  than  five  feet  nine  or  ten,  but  his  slender 
frame,  contrasted  with  massive  shoulders  and  a  large  rugged  head,  gave 
him  an  overwhelming  presence. 

This  was  Daniel  Webster — thirty-one  years  old,  a  small-town  lawyer 
from  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire,  but  with  a  reputation  behind  him. 
Elected  on  an  avowed  'peace-ticket/  his  declarations  of  the  summer  that 
the  Constitution  itself  had  been  adopted  'for  the  protection  of  commerce/ 
and  that  the  war  was  'premature  and  inexpedient/  had  won  him  his  seat 
and  his  fame.  Unlike  the  War  Boys,  there  was  nothing  of  passion  or  im- 
petuosity about  him.  'Caution,  deliberation,  and  diffidence'  were  the 
watchwords  of  this  young  man,  but  underneath  a  surface  languor  was  a 
bedrock  of  purpose.8 

Impishly  Speaker  Clay  appointed  the  newcomer  to  John  Randolph's 
old  seat  on  the  Foreign  Relations  Committee.  And  if  Calhoun  had  dared 
hope  that  life  would  be  easier  for  him  with  the  Virginia  gadfly  buzzing  in 
his  native  hills,  he  was  rapidly  disillusioned. 

Across  the  committee  table,  the  two  men  eyed  each  other.  What  Cal- 


VII  YOUNG  HERCULES  85 

houn  thought  of  Daniel  Webster  at  this  period  we  do  not  know.  But 
Webster  had  foreknowledge  of  Calhoun.  Warm  in  his  pocket  lay  a  letter 
from  his  friend,  William  March:  'Calhoun  I  don't  know  personally,  but 
have  a  high  respect  for  his  talent.  He  is  young,  and  if  honest  may  yet  be 
open  to  conviction.' 9 

Honest?  Good  Lord,  yes!  but  'open  to  conviction3 — that  intense  young 
zealot!  You  might  as  well  try  to  convince  a  hurricane!  But  the  New 
Englander  spared  no  efforts  to  convince  the  more  placable.  On  June  10, 
1813,  he  launched  a  searing  attack  on  the  entire  war  program.  Unflinch- 
ingly he  accused  the  Administration  of  having  deliberately  withheld, 
until  the  declaration  of  war,  the  publication  of  the  new  French  Decrees 
which  would  have  automatically  produced  repeal  of  the  British  Orders 
in  Council,  a  major  cause  of  the  war. 

These  were  serious  charges.  Back  in  1805,  after  Trafalgar  had  left 
Britain  the  mistress  of  the  seas,  with  Napoleon  still  master  of  the  Conti- 
nent, the  two  empires  had  tried  to  starve  each  other  out  by  destruction 
of  commerce.  Britain's  Orders  in  Council  forbade  neutrals  to  trade  with 
ports  on  the  Continent,  and  Napoleon's  Berlin  and  Milan  Decrees  author- 
ized seizure  of  all  ships  which  traded  with  the  British  Empire.  Britain 
followed  up  with  a  subsequent  Order,  commanding  every  neutral  vessel 
to  pay  'protection'  duties  at  British  ports  or  risk  seizure;  and  Jefferson 's 
retaliatory  Embargo  cutting  off  all  American  trade,  both  from  Britain 
and  the  Continent,  had  almost  completed  the  ruin  of  America's  $157,- 
000,000  shipping  industry. 

For  American  ears  alone,  Napoleon's  Foreign  Minister  had  announced 
repeal  of  the  French  Decrees  as  early  as  August,  1810.  This  was,  of 
course,  a  trick  to  restore  American  trade  with  France,  and  Britain  recog- 
nized it  as  such.  Hence,  His  Majesty's  government  was  deaf  to  Madison's 
warning  that  unless  the  Orders  in  Council  were  repealed  by  February, 
1811,  no  trade  would  be  permitted  between  America  and  the  British  Em- 
pire. 

As  late  as  May  19,  1812,  England  had  repeated  her  determination  to 
maintain  her  Orders  until  convinced  that  France  had  actually  repealed 
her  Decrees  in  good  faith.  Then  was  staged  a  tragedy  of  errors  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic.  Had  modern  communications  existed,  the  bloodshed 
and  sufferings  of  the  War  of  1812  might  all  have  been  averted.  For  under 
American  diplomatic  pressure,  England  had  agreed  to  repeal,  two  days 
before  the  declaration  of  war! 

Whether  or  not,  as  Webster  believed,  Napoleon's  reiteration  that  he 
would  revoke  the  Decrees  was  influential  in  producing  the  British  action 
is  impossible  to  determine.  But  in  this,  his  maiden  speech,  not  even  the 
bitterest  of  the  New  Englander's  opponents  failed  to  feel  his  power.  Mem- 
bers left  their  seats  that  they  might  more  easily  see  the  glowing  face  of 
the  speaker,  and  'sat  down  or  stood  on  the  floor  fronting  him.'  'No  mem- 


86  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

her/  declared  the  reporter  for  the  Boston  Messenger,  'ever  riveted  the 
attention  of  the  House  so  completely  in  his  first  speech.' 10  All  the  frayed, 
dusty  old  phrases  of  congratulation  that  had  marked  Calhoun's  initial 
effort  were  revived  for  Webster. 

Calhoun,  of  course,  leaped  to  the  defense  of  the  beleaguered  Administra- 
tion. There  was  justice  in  Webster's  challenge  to  prove  the  conflict  'strictly 
American  ...  the  cause  of  a  people  and  not  of  a  party.'  This  was,  to  a 
degree,  a  sectional  war,  favored  by  the  majority  but  by  no  means  the 
whole  of  the  American  people.  This  sectional  opposition  was  a  sharp  blow 
to  Calhoun's  happy  belief  that  'the  common  danger  unites  all.7  Perhaps 
already  the  perceptive  South  Carolinian  was  aware  of  the  cleavage  in  vital 
interests  that  would  one  day  divide  the  nation. 

Nevertheless,  the  bulk  of  Webster's  charges  boomeranged.  Unimpeach- 
able authority  revealed  that  the  American  government's  first  intimation 
of  the  revocation  of  the  French  Decrees  had  not  reached  the  country  until 
July  13,  1812,  a  good  three  weeks  after  war  had  been  declared.  Vindica- 
tion was  complete,  but  Webster  was  not  there  to  acknowledge  it.  Hot 
weather  had  driven  him  home  for  the  remainder  of  the  session. 

He  returned  in  December,  1813,  late  as  usual,  but  in  time  to  vote  for  a 
resolution  requesting  the  President  to  give  information  explaining  the  fail- 
ure 'of  the  arms  of  the  United  States  on  the  Northern  frontier.'  Wholesale 
failure  through  a  second  summer  had  equipped  the  bitter  New  Englander 
with  plenty  of  ammunition  for  his  charges;  and  there  must  have  been 
times  when  it  was  difficult  for  the  hard-pressed  congressional  leaders  to 
decide  whether  they  were  carrying  on  a  war  against  England  or  New 
England  and  Daniel  Webster.  We  in  New  England  are  no  patriots — we 
will  do  what  is  required — no  more/  u  said  the  New  Hampshire  man. 

Calhoun,  meanwhile,  in  'ringing'  speeches,  which  along  with  Henry 
Clay's  were  read  at  the  head  of  the  armies  to  inspire  the  troops,  strove  to 
nationalize  and  focus  the  war  sentiment.  For  the  anti-war  faction  he  had 
stern  rebuke.  'It  is  the  duty  of  every  section  to  bear  whatever  the  general 
interest  may  demand,'  Calhoun  reminded  the  rebellious  elements.  'Carolina 
makes  no  complaint  .  .  .  she  turns  her  indignation,  not  against  her  own 
government,  but  against  the  common  enemy.'  Carolina  did  not  compare 
her  sufferings  'with  those  of  the  other  States.  She  would  be  proud  to  stand 
pre-eminent  in  suffering  if  ...  the  general  good  could  be  obtained.  It 
seems  the  injury  and  insult  go  for  nothing  with  the  opposition,'  said  Cal- 
houn bitterly.  'War  has  been  declared  by  a  law  of  the  land  ...  the  worst 
of  laws  ought  to  be  respected  while  they  remain  laws.  .  .  .  What  would 
have  been  thought  of  such  conduct  in  the  war  of  the  Revolution?' 

Despite  his  condemnations,  however,  he  refused  to  give  way  to  despair. 
He  had  lived  in  New  England  long  enough,  he  felt,  to  be  convinced  of  its 
citizens'  'basic  loyalty.'  The  'interest  of  the  people  and  that  of  the  leaders 
...  are  often  at  war.' 12 


VH          YOUNG  HERCULES  87 


What  with  committee  meetings  and  debate  and  preparation  of  oratory, 
during  the  daytime  Calhoun's  energies  were  well  absorbed.  But  at  night  life 
was  dull.  For  the  six-dollar-a-day  Congressmen  there  were  only  the  fif  teen- 
dollar-a-week  boarding  houses,  crude,  comfortless,  and  scantily  furnished, 
of  which  fifteen  or  sixteen  huddled  around  the  Capitol.  In  one  of  these, 
amidst  a  maximum  of  noise  and  a  minimum  of  privacy,  Calhoun  and  the 
rest  of  the  War  Mess  took  'genteel  board  and  lodging,'  with  'two  gentlemen 
to  each  room.'  They  shivered  when  the  expected  supplies  of  coal  failed  to 
arrive;  gulped  down  coarse  meals  of  tough  steak  and  stewed  peaches; 
tossed  on  lonely  and  lumpy  beds,  picked  bugs  out  of  the  closets  and  red 
ants  from  the  washstand;  and  for  entertainment  were  offered  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  one  of  their  company  read  aloud  from  Shakespeare  or  a  similar 
'improving'  work;  or  on  Sunday  night  a  psalm-singing  session  if  the  house 
was  lucky  enough  to  boast  the  dual  attractions  of  a  piano  and  a  girl.13 

Morning  after  morning  they  struggled  up  Capitol  Hill  through  yellow 
mud  or  swirling  dust,  buffeted  by  wind  that  'almost  takes  your  breath 
away.'  Though  war  had  silenced  the  social  festivities,  there  were  occasional 
presentations  of  dramas  such  as  Youth's  Errors  or  The  Marriage  Promise; 
there  was  aplenty  of  snipe  and  'even  partridge  shooting  ...  on  each  side 
of  the  Main  avenue  and  even  close  imder  the  walls  of  the  Capitol';  and 
those  to  whom  solitude  was  essential  could  ride  horseback  for  hours  in  the 
outskirts,  completely  undisturbed.14 

For  the  War  Mess  as  a  whole,  however,  these  outlets  were  not  enough. 
'Wild  and  irreverent,'  off  as  well  as  on  the  Congressional  floor,  they  curled 
their  hair,  swaggered  forth  in  'wonderful  waistcoats,'  washed  down  their 
indifferent  food  with  inordinate  quantities  of  the  brandy  and  whiskey 
which  were  included  in  their  board  bills,  gambled  at  brag,  'that  game  of 
bluster  and  look  and  talk  big,'  danced  'indecent  dances'  and  'chased 
women,' 15  although  the  almost  'unvarying  masculinity  of  the  society,'  of 
which  Daniel  Webster  complained  so  bitterly,  made  conquests  few  while 
whetting  ardor  all  the  more. 

Doubtless  some  relief  was  offered  in  March  by  a  famous — or  infamous 
— art  exhibit.  Vehement  little  Amos  Kendall,  purported  to  be  'stirred  by 
the  power  of  the  painting,' 16  but  other  observers  were  more  forthright.  Un- 
fortunately, history  leaves  no  record  as  to  what  Calhoun  thought  of  the 
picture,  but  he  probably  shared  the  viewpoint  of  his  friend,  William 
Lowndes,  with  whom  he  may  even  have  attended  the  exhibit.  To  his  wife 
the  Charleston  statesman  observed  sadly  that  'all  the  ladies  go,'  and  re- 
vealed the  cause  of  the  excitement  as  'an  exquisitely  beautiful  woman,  who 
had  no  other  dress  than  a  braid  of  pearls  for  her  hair.'  He  would  give  no 


88  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

further  description  'of  this  fascinating  picture,  for  though  it  may  do  you 
no  harm  to  read,  it  may  do  me  some  to  write  or  think  of  it.'  A  'draping 
of  ...  lace/ 17  thought  the  modest  South  Carolinian,  would  'heighten  the 
effect/  Just  what  effect  was  to  be  heightened,  he  failed  to  say. 


5 

As  far  as  male  companionship  was  concerned,  the  young  men  of  the  Con- 
gress offered  a  wide  and  satisfying  variety.  Calhoun  could  spend  an  evening 
with  young  Carolina-born  Israel  Pickens,  scientist  and  mathematician, 
whose  mind  was  as  cold  and  clear  as  his  passions  were  hot;  or  with  absent- 
minded  Langdon  Cheves,  never  so  happy  as  when  hunched  over  a  table 
drawing  mansions  by  candlelight.  Between  Clay  and  Calhoun  strong  feel- 
ing always  existed,  whether  of  affection  or  hatred,  and  at  this  period  each 
felt  keen  personal  admiration  for  the  other,  although  they  were  already 
too  aware  of  the  surge  of  each  other's  ambition  to  achieve  real  intimacy. 
But  of  Calhoun's  friendship  for  one  man,  we  have  clear  proof. 

'Mr.  Calhoun  of  South  Carolina  has  joined  us/  William  Lowndes  had 
written  early  in  the  session  of  1811-12, '.  .  .  a  man  well-informed,  easy  in 
his  manners  .  .  .  amiable  in  his  disposition.  I  like  him  already  better  than 
any  man  of  our  mess.3 18 

Thus,  for  Calhoun  and  Lowndes  began  one  of  those  rare  friendships  that 
are  ended  only  by  death.  Almost  instantaneously,  these  two,  neither  of 
whom  gave  his  intimacy  easily,  became  inseparable;  and  their  tall  figures 
walking  side  by  side  became  a  familiar  sight  on  the  streets  of  the  capital, 
Lowndes5  lank,  loose-limbed  six-foot-six  frame  dwarfing  even  his  com- 
panion. Had  this  stooped,  cadaverous  man  with  his  craggy  features  lived 
a  generation  or  so  later,  he  would  have  been  said  to  look  like  Abraham 
Lincoln;  had  he  lived  a  few  years  longer,  Lincoln  might  have  been  said  to 
look  like  him. 

But  there  was  nothing  of  Lincoln  in  his  background.  All  the  'advantages' 
that  Fate  had  denied  Calhoun  were  his  friend's  in  abundance:  European 
travel  and  education,  all  the  books  that  he  could  read,  and  all  the  horses 
that  he  could  ride.  In  his  Commonplace  Book,  filled  with  architectural 
drawings  and  plans  for  farm  machinery  of  his  own  invention,  were  notes 
of  long  conversations  with  Madison  on  the  formation  of  the  Constitution — 
whether  or  not  the  President  should  have  the  authority  'to  choose  peace 
or  war/  and  if  Congress  'should  have  a  negative  upon  the  State  Laws' — 
subjects  which  would  have  greatly  interested  Calhoun  had  he  had  access 
to  them.19 

Even  superior  Europe  had  granted  William  Lowndes  admiration;  on  a 
London  street  one  man  remarked  to  another:  'I  have  just  been  talking 
with  a  young  American  .  .  .  who  is  the  tallest,  wisest,  and  best-bred 


Vn  YOUNG  HERCULES  89 

young  man  I  have  ever  met.'  'It  must  have  been  Mr.  Lowndes  of  South 
Carolina/  was  the  speedy  response.20 

Everyone  admired  William  Lowndes.  Congressional  old-timers,  who 
dismissed  the  rest  of  the  Liberty  Boys  as  half-grown  hotheads,  'their  pin- 
feathers  still  on/  would  leave  their  seats  to  cluster  around  this  pale,  hollow- 
chested  young  man  whose  whisper  of  a  voice  spoke  words  of  such  mellowed 
wisdom  that  he  was  compared  even  to  Washington  himself.  As  he  never 
spoke  unless  he  had  something  to  say,  and  never  had  anything  to  say  unless 
it  was  constructive,  he  had  become  something  of  an  oracle.  And  yet  'there 
was  nothing  pompous  in  him,  no  blustering,  no  rant.' a  Only  once,  on  the 
news  of  the  great  victory  on  Lake  Erie,  his  reserve  dropped  from  him,  and 
for  an  hour  he  spoke  with  a  fire  that  electrified  the  House.22  And  yet  it 
was  his  gentleness  even  more  than  his  great  intellect  that  won.  To  hurt 
another,  even  to  protect  himself,  was  beyond  his  powers.  To  discuss  before 
him  the  petty  bickerings  of  party  politics  seemed  to  his  friends  like  sacri- 
lege.23 

He  was  utterly  void  of  ambition.  Tubercular  from  childhood,  he  was 
little  more  than  an  invalid,  and  under  the  strain  of  Washington  life  his 
strength  ebbed  from  month  to  month.  He  knew  that  he  had  not  long  to 
live  and  his  mind  was  not  on  the  rewards  of  living.  Upon  Calhoun's  eager 
strivings  he  could  look  with  wistfulness,  but  also  with  sympathy.  Between 
the  two  men  understanding  was  complete.  Twenty  years  later,  Calhoun, 
shaken  with  'an  emotion  rare  in  that  great  man/  would  tell  Lowndes' 
widow  that  there  had  never  'been  a  cloud'  **  between  his  friend  and  him- 
self. 

For  Calhoun,  however,  home  seemed  far  away  during  the  wearing  winter 
months,  and  letters  were  few  and  unsatisfying.  There  was  so  much  he 
wanted  to  say.  'It  is  impossible  for  me  in  ...  an  ordinary  letter  to  com- 
municate half  the  observations  .  .  .  which  I  have  made  since  the  com- 
mencement of  my  publick  life'  he  wrote  MacBride.  'My  friend/  he  hinted, 
'will  not  let  many  days  elapse  before  he  will  gratify  me  with  his  pres- 
ence.'25 

But  he  could  not  summon  Floride.  'If  Floride  bears  my  absence  as  badly 
as  I  do  hers,  she  must  occasionally  be  very  impatient/  he  confessed  to  his 
mother-in-law.  By  day  he  could  absorb  himself  in  his  work;  but  at  night 
he  could  not  escape  homesickness  even  in  sleep.  'I  Dreamed  all  night  the 
last  night  of  being  home  with  you;  and  nursing  our  dear  son/  he  wrote 
Floride,  'and  regreted  when  I  awoke  to  find  it  a  dream.  I  was  in  hopes 
that  the  morning's  mail  would  bring  me  a  letter  from  you;  but  was  dis- 
appointed. It  is  near  a  month  since  I  had  one.'  *  2e 

Through  the  dour  weeks  of  January,  1814,  Calhoun  waited  every  mail- 
day  with  a  rising  sense  of  anxiety.  It  was  not  until  February  6  that  he  tore 
open  the  letter  from  South  Carolina  signed  by  'Dr.  Casey.'  'Relief  and 

*  Written  in  March,  1812,  but  typical  of  his  state  of  mind  when  away  from  home. 


90  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

joy5  swept  over  him.  His  first  daughter  had  arrived,  and  Florida  had  had 
'comparatively  easy  times.' 27  He  took  time  out  from  the  questions  of  con- 
scription and  banking  to  consider  a  name  for  the  'addition  to  our  family.5 
To  his  wife  he  wrote  that  his  'inclination  would  be  to  call  her  by  the  name 
which  you  and  your  mother  bear.' 

Despite  his  excitement,  Calhoun  did  not  neglect  the  small  bystander  in 
the  family  drama.  The  year  before,  he  had  written  his  'dearest  Floride' 
detailed  advice  on  the  necessity  of  weaning  their  son;  now  Calhoun  re- 
marked that  'Andrew  appears  .  .  .  forgot.  None  of  the  letters  .  .  .  men- 
tion a  word  of  him.  .  .  .  Kiss  him  for  me.' M 


It  was  with  genuine  conviction  that  Calhoun  on  April  6,  1814,  delivered  a 
successful  speech  urging  repeal  of  Madison's  abortive  embargo.  Com- 
mercial restrictions  were  particularly  distasteful  to  Calhoun  in  a  supposed 
war  for  'free  trade/  and  he  had  supported  the  three-months'  Non-Inter- 
course Act  of  April  4, 1812,  only  as  an  emergency  measure.  Already  fearful 
of  the  undue  stimulus  embargoes  gave  industry  and  manufacturing,  he 
vehemently  fought  down  an  attempt  at  renewal  in  December  of  1812,  on 
the  ground  that  he  was  against  anything  that  the  government  was  power- 
less to  enforce. 

As  Administration  floor  leader,  however,  Calhoun  was  forced  to  give  a 
reluctant  vote  to  the  Embargo  of  December  17,  1813,  passed  to  prevent 
'leaks'  to  Canada  and  England.  Now,  four  months  later,  in  the  face  of 
taunts  from  Daniel  Webster,  Calhoun  saved  'face'  for  the  Administration 
by  adroitly  concocted  explanations  as  to  why  the  measure  had  been  a  mis- 
take, after  all.  His  words  now  re-echoed  his  more  eloquent  argument  of 
two  years  before.  We  think  that  'prohibition  in  law  is  prohibition  in  fact,' 
Calhoun  had  then  contended.  This  'mistake'  he  daily  saw  reflected  in 
shops  'lined  with  English  manufactures.  ...  In  all  free  governments,  the 
laws  cannot  be  much  above  the  tone  of  public  opinion.'  Why  not  let  British 
goods  in — as  they  were  coming  in  anyway?  Why  not  let  the  government 
reap  the  profits,  win  additional  millions  for  'our  gallant  little  Navy?'  Such 
action,  maintained  the  surprisingly  realistic  Carolinian,  'will  yield  .  .  . 
more  revenue  than  the  whole  of  the  internal  taxes,  and  this  on  goods  which 
will  be  introduced  in  spite  of  ...  laws/  He  had  condemned  proposals  to 
lay  penalty  taxes  upon  those  who  had  illegally  profited  in  British  goods. 
Was  the  object  profit,  or  the  execution  of  the  law?  'If  our  merchants  are 
innocent,  they  are  welcome  to  their  good  fortune;  if  guilty,  I  scorn  to  par- 
ticipate in  their  profits.' 

'To  say  to  the  most  trading  people  on  earth,  you  shall  not  trade  .  .  . 
does  not  suit  the  genius  of  our  people.  .  .  .  Our  government  is  founded 
on  freedom  and  hates  coercion.' 


VH  YOUNG  HERCULES  91 

'Men  do  not  look  beyond  immediate  causes,3  Calhoun  had  warned.  If 
the  Embargo  ruined  commerce,  they  would  blame  the  government  that 
imposed  it,  not  '  those  acts  of  violence  and  injustice3  which  it  was  'intended 
to  counteract.3  Thus  would  government  be  'rendered  odious.3  *  * 

For  Calhoun,  back  at  home  that  summer  of  1814,  the  war  seemed  very 
far  away.  Not  even  his  pending  candidacy  for  re-election  caused  him  con- 
cern. He  had  won  easily  two  years  earlier  against  a  Federalist  tide,  on  the 
heels  of  the  military  defeats.  Such  had  been  his  popularity  in  his  home 
district  that  no  opponent  had  dared  stand  against  him.  And  now,  despite 
two  more  years  of  external  defeats  and  internal  divisions  for  the  nation, 
Calhoun3s  personal  standing  was  still  unchallenged.  He  won  again,  by  a 
high  vote  and  without  opposition. 


Fear  weighed  heavily  on  the  national  capital  during  those  hot,  thunder- 
blurred  days  of  summer,  as  the  press  screamed  boasts  that  'the  insolent 
foot  of  the  invader  would  never  touch  American  soil.3  It  was  July  20,  1814, 
and  the  Tenth  Military  District — Maryland,  Washington,  and  all  Virginia 
north  of  the  Rappahannock — awaited  the  attack  of  the  British  armies — 
with  a  defensive  force  of  six  hundred  men!  Not  until  nearly  August  did 
the  Maryland  Governor  call  out  three  thousand  members  of  the  state 
militia.  It  was  not  until  August  19  that  seven  hundred  Virginia  militiamen 
came  forth  for  the  'glorious  cause3 — minus  flints  and  muskets.  That  same 
day  British  barges  were  up  the  Patuxent  River,  pouring  an  army  of  'Well- 
ington^ Invincibles3  out  upon  the  village  of  Benedict — forty  miles  from 
the  capital!  30 

In  Washington,  the  twenty-fourth  of  August,  1814,  dawned  hot  and  still. 
Clouds  darkened  the  sky,  but  the  faint  rumbling  in  the  east  was  not 
thunder.  Cannon  were  booming  at  the  little  Maryland  ha,mlet  of  Bladens- 
burg.  There  British  troops  sent  a  motley  and  hastily  assembled  army  of 
clerks,  mechanics,  and  'regulars3  under  the  doddering  General  Winder, 
fleeing  'pell-mell3  in  such  speed  that  more  than  one  Britisher  suffered  a  sun- 
stroke trying  to  keep  up  with  them! 

In  Washington,  tie  women  waited,  but  they  could  not  see  what  Dolly 
Madison  saw.  Dolly  had  a  spyglass  in  her  hand.  Since  sunrise  she  had 
been  turning  it  'in  every  direction,3  hoping  to  see  her  husband,  'but  without 
success.3  All  she  could  see  were  'groups  of  military  wandering  in  all  direc- 
tions, as  if  ...  there  was  a  lack  of  ...  spirit  to  fight  for  their  own  fire- 
sides.3 

Twelve  o'clock.  Two.  Three.  Two  messengers,  gray  with  dust  and 
weariness,  stumbled  up  the  steps  of  the  'President's  Palace3  to  bid  Dolly 

*  The  quotations  are  from  Calhoun's  speech  on  f Merchants'  Bonds,'  of  December  4, 
1812. 


92  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

cfly.'  She  seized  paper  and  pen  and  poured  out  her  fears:  'Mr.  Madison 
comes  not.  May  God  protect  us  ...  here  I  mean  to  watch  for  him.' 3I 

From  her  own  window  a  Washington  society  woman,  Mrs.  Margaret 
Bayard  Smith,  was  watching  'our  troops  .  .  .  pale  with  fright,  retreating 
by,  hour  after  hour/  And  over  pounding  footsteps  and  echoing  cannon 
sounded  the  voice  of  a  Negro  cook:  fl  done  heard  Mr.  Madison  done  sold 
the  country  to  the  British! ' 32 

Dolly  Madison  at  last  was  reading  a  penciled  note  from  her  husband. 
She  must  be  ready  to  leave  the  city  'at  a  moment's  notice.'  The  enemy 
'seemed  stronger  than  reported,  and  .  .  .  might  .  .  .  reach  the  city  with 
intention  to  destroy  it.'  A  wagon  was  pulled  up  to  the  front  door  and  Dolly 
and  her  servants  rushed  to  and  fro,  their  arms  piled  with  silver,  china,  and 
jewelry.  A  few  moments  later  the  President's  wife  stood  taut  before  Gilbert 
Stuart's  portrait  of  Washington,  waiting  to  catch  'the  precious  canvas* 
as  sweating  workmen  frantically  hacked  the  frame  apart.33 

Four  o'clock.  At  the  windows  of  her  Sixth  Street  home  a  weary  young 
New  England  matron,  too  far  gone  in  pregnancy  to  risk  the  jostling  ride 
to  the  woods  beyond  the  city,  watched  the  dust  settle  back  into  the  empty 
streets  and  heard  the  echoing  footsteps  and  creaking  wagon  wheels  die 
away.  Through  the  sodden  hours  of  morning  she  had  felt  the  tightening 
band  of  panic  close  in  on  the  city;  watched  neighbors  'pressing  into  service 
everything  in  the  shape  of  an  animal  or  a  vehicle,'  and  following  their 
army  into  headlong  flight.  Now  she  noted:  'Nearly  the  whole  of  the  more 
aristocratic  population  had  decamped.' 

There  were  those,  however,  who  remained  behind.  The  New  England 
girl  heard  their  voices:  'The  President!  The  President!' 

She  peered  from  the  window,  caught  a  glimpse  of  Madison's  thin,  sun- 
burned face  and  bare  head.  The  dust  whirled  into  her  face  as  the  coach 
dashed  past.34 

Hour  by  hour  the  waiting  dragged  on.  The  red  ball  of  the  sun  dropped 
lower,  but  not  a  leaf  stirred.  Then,  like  the  voice  of  an  approaching  storm, 
came  the  lift  of  the  dust  ...  the  footsteps  .  .  .  hoofbeats.  .  .  .  The 
British  had  entered  the  city. 

Ragged^  stumbling,  almost  as  weary  as  the  men  they  had  beaten,  the 
Redcoats  streamed  through  the  deserted  streets,  crashed  in  locked  doors, 
emerged  with  food  and  fresh  clothes.  Silently  the  citizens  watched  the 
proud  Admiral  Cockburn  ride  by  on  a  white  horse  followed  by  its  foal, 
which  was  vainly  attempting  to  nurse.  A  child  sat  sobbing  in  a  doorway; 
General  Ross  shouted  to  her  as  he  passed.  'Don't  cry,  little  girl;  I  will  take 
better  care  of  you  than  Jemmy  did.' 

At  the  Capitol,  the  triumphal  march  ended.  A  single  volley  shattered  the 
windows;  the  Redcoats  swarmed  up  the  steps.  General  Ross  himself 
escorted  the  conquering  admiral  to  Henry  Clay's  rostrum,  and  laughter 
and  cheers  broke  out  as  Cockburn  called  the  body  to  order  and  put  the 


VH          YOUNG  HERCULES  93 

question:  'Shall  this  harbor  of  Yankee  democracy  be  burned?  All  for  it 
say  aye!'  The  question  was  'carried  unanimously'  amidst  a  clamor  of 
shouts:  Tire  the  building!  Fire  the  building!' 

'The  Cossacks/  boasted  the  British  leaders,  'spared  Paris,  but  we  did 
not  spare  the  Capitol  of  America/  Officers  and  men  dashed  for  the  Library, 
where  they  tore  paintings  from  the  walls,  pulled  handfuls  of  books  and 
papers  from  the  shelves,  tossed  them  on  the  velvet  canopies  and  'Turkey 
carpets'  of  the  House,  and  applied  the  torch.  Outside,  fifty  men  armed  with 
poles  topped  with  fireballs,  thrust  their  weapons  through  the  Capitol  win- 
dows. Flames  soared  up  and  a  red  stain  spread  against  the  sky.85 

It  was  a  still  moonlit  night.  On  her  portico  the  young  New  England 
housewife  stood  helpless  beside  her  husband,  her  fists  clenched.  'We  .  .  . 
stood  and  gazed,  as  if  it  had  been  a  play  upon  a  stage.  ,  .  .  Not  a  breath 
stirred  the  flames  which  rose  up  straight,  mighty  pillars  of  fire.  „  *  .  Grad- 
ually they  widened  and  brightened  until  the  Capitol,  the  buildings  of  the 
several  departments  and  the  bridge  over  the  Potomac  were  wrapt  in  one 
sheet  of  fire.'  Meanwhile,  over  at  the  White  House  Ross,  Cockburn,  and 
their  troops  were  gorging  themselves  on  the  meat,  wine,  and  melted  ices 
which  Dolly  Madison  had  left  on  the  dinner  table  a  few  hours  before.86 

In  stagnant  heat  the  next  morning  the  work  of  demolition  continued. 
Overhead,  the  sky  darkened.  Thunder  muttered  intermittently.  Gusts  of 
wind  whipped  through  the  poplar  trees.  Rain  began  to  fall,  slowly  at  first, 
and  then  faster  and  more  heavily.  Minute  by  minute  the  sky  grew  darker. 
By  noon  the  blackness  of  midnight  shrouded  the  surrounding  hills.  A 
panicky  British  officer  peering  through  the  dusk  fancied  he  could  see  a 
great  army  of  American  troops  gathered  on  the  heights  of  Georgetown, 
poised  to  swoop  down  upon  the  city.  His  story  spread;  and  as  a  roaring 
hurricane  swept  across  the  smoking  ruins,  uprooting  trees,  ripping  off  roofs, 
and  tossing  about  the  great  cannon  on  Capitol  Hill,  the  call  for  retreat 
sounded. 

Then  an  explosion  shook  the  ravaged  city.  A  soldier  had  dropped  a  torch 
into  a  well  where  the  Americans  had  stored  their  surplus  gunpowder.  Tiny 
groups  of  burned  and  bleeding  Redcoats  staggered  back  into  the  city  to 
report  the  death  of  a  hundred  of  their  number.37 

The  invasion  of  Washington  was  over.  Like  ants  from  a  crushed  hill  the 
invaders  fled  the  death  and  destruction.  Slowly  the  dazed  citizenry  began 
to  creep  through  the  streets.  Now  and  then  came  a  sweetish  whiff  of  death 
from  open  ditches  and  underbrush,  where  under  the  hot  sun  unburied 
bodies  still  lay.  The  government  buildings  were  destroyed,  but  most  of  the 
dwelling  houses  still  stood.  Life  could  go  on.  But  it  was  not  expected  that 
Washington  would  'ever  again  be  the  seat  of  government.'  * 


94  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 


8 

On  September  19,  1814,  a  Special  Session  of  the  Thirteenth  Congress 
assembled  amid  the  ruins.  Bitter  Federalists  introduced  and  lost  a  long- 
cherished  dream  of  moving  the  capital  to  another  city;  and  Washing- 
tonians  set  to  work  building  a  temporary  Capitol,  later  to  be  known  as 
Hill's  boarding  house,  and  later  still,  as  the  Old  Capital  Prison.  For  im- 
mediate use  Congress  was  assigned  a  tumbledown  shanty  on  Seventh 
Street,  which  had  seen  service  as  Post  Office,  Patent  Office,  theater,  lodging 
house,  and  tavern.  House  members  packed  themselves  into  a  tiny  room, 
heated  by  a  single  wood-burning  fireplace,  and  with  so  few  desks  that 
Calhoun  and  other  late  comers  had  to  take  their  chances  on  a  spot  on  the 
window  seat  or  in  the  very  fireplace  itself. 

The  South  Carolinian  was  not  present  for  the  opening.  Months  of  work 
and  strain  had  lowered  his  resistance,  and  he  had  caught  a  'very  severe 
fever,'  which  lingered  for  several  weeks.  Not  until  October  19  could  the 
National  Intelligencer  report  that  'Mr.  Calhoun  .  .  .  appeared  and  took 
his  seat.' 

He  found  his  fellow  legislators  engrossed,  not  in  plans  for  reconstruction, 
but  in  feverish  debate  as  to  whether  or  not  the  library  of  Thomas  Jeffer- 
son was  fit  for  the  government  to  accept  as  a  gift  to  the  nation.  The  trouble 
was  with  the  books  themselves— works  of  Newton  and  Locke — strong  meat 
for  legislators  whose  literary  tastes,  if  any,  were  satisfied  by  Tales  of 
Horror  and  King  Arthur's  Knights.  The  great  objection,  however,  accord- 
ing to  press  reports,  was  to  'the  works  of  Voltaire.'  It  is  easy  to  imagine 
Calhoun's  disgust  at  this  nonsense,  and  doubtless  he  cordially  shared  the 
view  of  the  Petersburg  Courier,  which  asked:  'What  can  be  a  greater  stigma 
upon  the  members  of  our  National  Legislature  than  to  assert  that  books 
of  a  philosophical  nature  are  improper  for  their  perusal?'  *9 

Calhoun  lost  no  time  in  distracting  the  legislative  attention.  His  worry 
was  the  currency — or  rather  the  lack  of  it.  The  creaking  framework  of  a 
government  had  risen  out  of  the  ashes  of  defeat,  but  of  that  sine  qua  non, 
money,  there  was  none  at  all.  A  national  bank  offered  hope  for  resurrection 
of  the  dying  currency  and  replenishment  of  the  depleted  Treasury;  but 
Secretary  of  the  Treasury  Dallas's  plan  for  'a  vast  government  engine' 
with  a  capital  of  fifty  million  dollars,  of  which  only  five  million  would  be 
in  coin,  with  the  government  free  to  borrow  thirty  million,  seemed  to  Cal- 
houn an  'odious*  scheme. 

For  the  first  time  Calhoun,  the  Administration  spearhead,  'the  young 
Hercules  who  had  borne  the  war  upon  his  shoulders/  showed  that  'proud 
independence  of  party  spirit,'  later  so  characteristic  of  him.  His  one  con- 
cession was  a  refusal  to  have  his  speech  of  opposition  published,  reluctant 


VH  YOUNG  HERCULES 

as  he  was  to  defy  both  the  Administration  and  his  own  close  friends.  Yet, 
despite  his  personal  scruples,  the  'slender,  erect,  and  ardent'  orator  held 
none  of  his  fire.  A  listener  cites  this  lost  speech  as  cone  of  the  most  luminous 
and  irresistable  arguments  ever  delivered  in  Congress.'  *° 

The  House  thought  so,  and  promptly  rejected  the  Dallas  plan.  On 
November  16,  1814,  Calhoun  presented  his  substitute.  Where  in  Dallas's 
bank  the  capital  would  have  been  in  government  stock,  Calhoun's  measure 
provided  for  a  $45,000,000  capitalization  of  Treasury  notes.  In  Dallas's 
measure  the  President  could  suspend  specie  payments  as  necessary,  and  a 
loan  of  three-fifths  of  the  capital  was  to  be  made  to  the  government;  but 
in  Calhoun's  bank  the  government  could  not  suspend,  nor,  in  the  South 
Carolinian's  opinion,  would  there  be  any  necessity  for  a  loan.  Calhoun  was 
not  over  specific  on  the  details  of  the  scheme;  but  as  the  Treasury  notes, 
already  in  circulation,  had  nose-dived  to  seventy  cents  on  the  dollar,  the 
new  issue,  $45,000,000  in  face  value,  would  actually  have  been  worth 
only  $31,500,000.  Consequently,  Calhoun's  bill  provided  that  the  new  notes 
were  to  be  convertible  into  bank  stock.  As  the  stock  was  a  good  buy,  the 
new  notes  would  immediately  soar  to  par,  carrying  with  them,  so  Calhoun 
seems  to  have  thought,  all  notes  previously  issued  by  the  Treasury  De- 
partment. Thus,  the  government  would  have  gained  thirty  cents  on  every 
dollar  of  the  outstanding  notes  and  have  'made'  enough  money  not  to  re- 
quire a  loan. 

The  scheme  was  certainly  more  ingenious  than  sound,  but  there  was  an 
intriguing  plausibility  about  it  which  appealed  to  Congress.  Calhoun's  bill 
was  passed  on  November  27;  its  author  experienced  a  brief  twenty-four- 
hour  triumph  before  the  terrified  Dallas  rallied  an  emergency  coalition  to 
defeat  it  by  a  handful  of  votes. 

On  December  9,  Dallas  introduced  a  new  bill,  incorporating  several 
features  of  Calhoun's  plan,  but  still  providing  for  a  paper  as  opposed  to  a 
specie  bank.  Under  the  plea  of  war  necessity,  he  managed  to  ram  the 
measure  through  the  Senate,  but  its  defeat  in  the  House  on  January  2, 
1815,  was  guaranteed  by  Daniel  Webster,  who  galloped  forty  miles  from  a 
Christmas  vacation  in  Baltimore  to  his  party's  rescue.  The  vote  was  dose, 
81  yeas  to  80  nays.  Then  Speaker  Langdon  Cheves,  later  to  be  President 
of  the  United  States  Bank,  arose,  seconded  Webster's  objections,  and 
killed  the  bill  with  a  tie. 

To  Calhoun,  tired  and  overwrought,  the  humiliation  was  especially  keen. 
He  had  voted  against  the  bill  in  its  original  form,  but  few  realized  more 
keenly  than  he  that  something  had  to  be  done,  and  he  still  believed  that 
Dallas's  plan,  objectionable  as  it  was,  might  be  revised  into  something 
sound  and  satisfactory.  Calhoun  had  stood  for  reconsideration  three  days 
earlier,  and  had  been  howled  down.  Now  the  hopelessness  of  the  months 
of  waiting  and  wrangling  flooded  over  him.  Impulsively  he  arose  and, 
holding  out  both  hands  in  appeal,  strode  across  the  House  floor  to  Webster  a 


96  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

whom  he  begged  for  assistance  in  writing  a  bill  that  would  gain  the  sup- 
port of  all  parties.  The  surprised  New  Englander  readily  promised  his 
help,  at  which  point  Calhoun  'burst  into  tears.' 41 

"  The  next  day  the  House  voted  to  reconsider.  The  new  bill  was  ready  by 
January  6,  1815.  The  bank's  capitalization  was  to  be  part  in  specie,  part 
in  new  stock,  and  part  in  Treasury  notes,  with  Calhoun's  proposals  in- 
corporated in  the  clauses  forbidding  the  suspension  of  specie  payments 
and  in  placing  no  obligation  upon  the  Bank  to  lend  to  the  government.  It 
passed  the  Senate.  It  passed  the  House.  But  it  died  stillborn  at  the  hands 
of  a  Presidential  veto;  and  was  replaced  promptly  by  another  'paper 
BankJ  bill  from  the  office  of  the  exasperated  Dallas.  Again,  the  weary 
wrangle  was  on. 


The  ranks  of  the  War  Boys  were  noticeably  thinned.  Several  were  fight- 
ing in  the  front  lines;  Clay  was  in  Belgium,  caught  in  a  tangle  of  peace 
negotiations  which  had  dragged  on  so  long  now  that  few  hoped  for  any- 
thing better  than  an  honorable  surrender.  The  empty  Speaker's  chair  had 
been  offered  Calhoun,  but  he  had  hastily  declined  it.  National  unity  was 
imperative,  and  none  knew  better  than  he  that,  although  in  actual  votes  he 
could  command  the  office,  no  man  had  more  bitter  enemies.  To  the  resent- 
ful and  reluctant  New  Englanders,  to  the  rebel  aristocracy  of  the  breed  of 
Randolph,  Calhoun  was  the  hated  personification  of  the  flagging  cause  of 
the  war. 

But  to  him,  the  cause  was  not  lost.  'I  am  not  without  my  fears  and  my 
hopes,'  he  had  earlier  admitted  to  the  assembled  Congress,  but  now  he 
dared  voice  no  fears.  Weary,  tormented  with  his  own  forebodings  of  disas- 
ter now  that  the  fall  of  Napoleon  had  freed  England  to  thrust  her  entire 
strength  against  America,  Calhoun  pitted  his  own  faith  and  the  intensity 
of  his  convictions  against  the  flooding  counsels  of  despair.  Speaking  time 
and  again  during  those  dark  months  of  1814  and  '15,  until  candles  flickered 
against  the  faded  walls  and  sheer  physical  exhaustion  compelled  him  to 
drop  into  his  seat,  he  fought  back  with  the  only  weapons  left  to  the  once 
cocksure  war  leaders,  courage  and  words.  'From  the  flood  the  tide  dates 
its  ebb/  he  promised.  Even  if  America  bowed  to  British  arms,  the  fight 
would  be  taken  up  again  when  the  population  had  jumped  from  eight 
millions  to  twenty.  'The  great  cause  will  not  be  yielded.  No;  never!  never! 
We  cannot  renounce  our  rights  to  the  ocean  which  Providence  has  spread 
before  our  doors.  .  .  .  We  have  already  had  success.  .  .  .  The  future  is 
audibly  proclaimed  by  the  splendid  victories  over  the  Guerrfere,  Java,  and 
Macedonia.  .  .  .  The  charm  of  British  naval  invincibility  is  broken.'  Bold 
words  these,  for  the  die-hards,  such  as  Webster,  were  railing  far  more 


VH          YOUNG  HERCULES  97 

against  the  government  that  had  invited  the  destruction  than  the  destruc- 
tion itself.42 

A  conscription  bill,  strongly  supported  by  Calhoun,  the  New  Englander 
termed  a  'horrible  lottery  ...  to  throw  the  dice  for  blood.3  Conscription 
was  unconstitutional.  It  must  be  prevented.  'It  will  be  the  solemn  duty/ 
he  informed  the  Congress,  'of  the  State  Governments  ...  to  interpose 
between  their  citizens  and  arbitrary  power.  These  are  among  the  objects 
for  which  the  State  Governments  exist.'  Thus,  twenty  years  later,  in  time 
of  peace,  Calhoun  would  define  the  purposes  of  nullification;  and  thus, 
in  time  of  war,  spoke  Daniel  Webster,  'the  defender  of  the  Union/  True, 
he  came  to  the  Union's  defense,  and  in  the  very  way  that  Calhoun  would 
later  defend  it;  asserting  that  'Those  who  cry  out  ...  that  the  Union  is 
in  danger  are  themselves  the  authors  of  that  danger.  They  put  its  existance 
to  hazard  by  measures  of  violence,  which  it  is  not  capable  of  enduring/ 
True  Unionists,  Webster  declared,  were  those  who  'preserve  the  spirit  in 
which  the  Union  was  framed.' 4S 

Meanwhile,  as  Webster  was  threatening  state  nullification  of  federal  law 
and  gleefully  writing  in  his  diary  'The  Government  cannot  execute  a  Con- 
scription Law.  ...  It  cannot  enlist  soldiers  .  »  .  It  cannot  borrow  money 
.  .  .  What  can  it  do?'  ** — remnants  of  the  Massachusetts  'Essex  Junto' 
which  since  Jefferson's  time  had  'meditated  the  creation  of  a  Northern 
Confederacy,'  were  gathering  in  the  State  House  at  Hartford,  Connecticut. 
And,  as  under  the  dome  of  the  old  Council  Chamber,  men  born  and  bred 
in  the  shadow  of  Bunker  Hill  coolly  calculated  the  value  of  the  Union,  in 
terms  of  finance  and  commerce,  Madison  broke  down.  To  be  driven  from 
his  home,  to  be  scorned  as  a  coward,  to  see  the  nation  which  he  had  sworn 
to  protect  and  defend,  invaded  and  shattered,  all  that  he  could  stand.  But 
this  was  too  much.  'No  foreign  foe  has  broken  my  heart,5  wrote  the  Presi- 
dent. 'To  see  the  capital  wrecked  by  the  British  does  not  hurt  so  deeply 
as  to  know  sedition  in  New  England.'  *5 

Calhoun,  younger  and  of  sterner  fiber,  was  undaunted.  Of  New  Eng- 
land's right  to  secede  he  had  no  doubts,  but  of  her  basic  loyalty  he  was 
equally  sure.  Yet  he  warned  his  fellow  legislators  of  the  dangers  inherent 
in  'a  false  mode  of  thinking.'  A  minority  had  no  'right  to  involve  the 
country  in  ruin.  .  .  .  How  far  the  minority  in  a  state  of  war,  may  justly 
oppose  the  measures  of  Government,  is  a  question  of  the  greatest  deli- 
cacy. ...  An  upright  citizen  will  do  no  act,  whatever  his  opinion  of  the 
war,  to  put  his  country  in  the  power  of  the  enemy.  .  .  .  Like  the  system 
of  our  State  and  General  governments, — within  they  are  many, — to  the 
world  but  one, — so  .  .  .  with  parties  ...  in  relation  to  other  nations 
there  ought  only  to  be  the  American  people.  .  .  .  This  sympathy  of  the 
whole  with  .  .  .  every  part  .  .  .  constitutes  our  real  union.  When  it 
ceases  ...  we  shall  cease  to  be  one  nation.'  ** 

Such  was  his  ideal,  but  he  wasted  little  time  in  lamentation.  There  was 


98  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

work  to  be  done;  men  and  money  to  be  raised,  the  warfare  at  home  to  be 
put  down  and  the  war  against  the  enemy  to  be  pursued.  Time  was  'pre- 
cious.' Though  feeling  'pressed  on  all  sides  by  the  most  interesting  topics,7 
he  held  himself  under  strict  control,  fearful  that  he,  'who  admonished 
against  the  consumption  of  the  time  of  the  House  in  long  debate,  should 
set  an  example  of  it/ 47 

If  he  spoke  briefly,  however,  he  spoke  frequently.  In  answer  to  the  cry 
for  a  defensive  rather  than  an  offensive  war,  he  countered  that  any  nation 
fighting  in  defense  of  violated  rights  was  fighting  a  defensive  war.  'The 
ambition  of  one  nation,'  Calhoun  warned,  'can  destroy  the  peace  of  the 
world/  With  Bonaparte  defeated,  England  could  no  longer  claim  to  be 
fighting  'in  defense  of  the  liberties  of  mankind/  As  for  us,  we  were  fighting 
for  the  trade  rights  of  a  free  world.  From  1756  on,  had  it  not  been  Eng- 
land's unshakable  policy  to  enlarge  her  trade  at  the  expense  of  her  neigh- 
bors? Had  she  not  violated  rights  guaranteed  to  her  fellow  nations  under 
international  law?  'It  is  her  pride  and  her  boast/  declared  Calhoun.  'A 
policy  so  injurious  to  the  common  interest  of  mankind  must  .  .  .  unite 
the  world  against  her/  tt 


10 

United  the  world  may  have  been  against  the  pretensions  of  His  Majesty's 
Empire,  but  not  so  tie  Congress  of  the  United  States.  Debate  raged  on, 
despite  Calhoun's  appeals  to  the  opposition  at  least  to  'coldly  look  on'  and 
not  to  impede  the  progress  of  the  war  by  'idle  and  frivolous'  chatter.  'Now 
is  the  time,  not  for  debate  but  action/  Fifty  thousand  men  must  be  re- 
cruited. The  enemy  must  be  crushed  on  land  and  on  sea.  Canada  must  be 
invaded.  Did  the  member  from  New  Hampshire  *  object?  The  member 
from  New  Hampshire  preferred  surrender?  Did  the  member  from  New 
Hampshire  realize  what  surrender  would  mean  to  New  England — the  loss 
of  Maine — the  loss  of  the  codfisheries?  f  *9 

Thus,  with  the  Hartford  Convention  adjourning  in  hazy  talk  of  consti- 
tutional amendments  to  protect  the  rights  of  the  Northern  States  against 
the  'hostile  .  .  .  Southern  interest,'  and  Henry  Clay  deep  in  games  of 
bluster  and  brag  at  Ghent,  Calhoun  pitted  words  against  defeat — and 
waited.  Discouragement  he  would  not  admit,  even  in  private  letters.  'No 
menace,  no  threat  of  disunion  shall  shake  me,'  he  told  MacBride.  'I  know 
the  difficulties.  ...  To  me  they  are  nothing.  I  by  no  means  despair/ 

*  Daniel  Webster. 

fAll  quotations  from  Calhoun  in  the  latter  half  of  this  chapter  are  from  his 
great  speech  on  the  Loan  Bill  of  February  25,  1814,  in  which  he  more  eloquently 
covered  all  issues  of  the  last  year  of  the  war  than  in  any  of  his  subsequent,  briefer 
addresses. 


VH          YOUNG  HERCULES  99 

America  was  too  great  to  'permit  its  freedom  to  be  destroyed  by  either 
domestick  or  foreign  foes.  .  .  .' 50 

On  a  night  in  late  January,  1815,  it  happened.  A  rumor  rippled  across 
the  surface  of  Washington,  stirring  the  seething  depths,  roaring  into  a 
storm  of  hysteria  and  hero-worship.  News  had  arrived,  so  fantastic  and 
incredible  that  the  entire  country  reeled  out  of  its  lethargy  and  despair. 
There  had  been  a  battle  over  the  heaped  cotton  bales  outside  New 
Orleans.  There  had  been  a  victory,  an  undreamed,  unbelievable  victory. 
Nearly  two  thousand  Redcoats  lay  dead  in  the  dank  swamplands  of 
Louisiana,  while  the  opposing  Americans  had  lost  but  sixty-three.  A  rag- 
tag army  of  Kentucky  hunters,  Tennessee  frontiersmen,  and  Georgia  wild- 
cats, under  the  command  of  lean  red-haired  Andrew  Jackson,  had  smashed 
the  last  British  invasion  of  American  soil.  'The  affair  at  New  Orleans/ 
exulted  Calhoun,  'must  indeed  be  a  strong  sedative  to  any  scheme  of  con- 
quest the  British  Government  may  have  formed.  ...  It  sees  how  little 
is  to  be  gained  by  war.' 51 

The  Battle  of  New  Orleans!  Candles  and  torchlights  flaring  against  the 
skies  of  Boston,  New  York,  and  Washington,  dark  streets  surging  with 
shouting  mobs,  bunting  flung  across  the  rotting  ships  in  the  harbors  of  New 
Bedford  and  Portsmouth.53  The  war  was  won,  and  the  fact  that  the  decisive 
.battle  had  been  fought  and  the  enemy  repulsed,  fifteen  days  after  a  treaty 
of  peace  had  been  signed  at  Ghent,  mattered  not  at  all. 

In  the  governmental  councils,  opposition  to  the  war  collapsed  like  a 
punctured  soap  bubble.  Those  who  had  declined  to  bear  the  burdens  were 
only  too  glad  to  partake  of  the  victory. 

Though  unaware  of  the  Christmas  Eve  Treaty  at  Ghent,  it  took  no 
great  foresight  on  the  part  of  Calhoun  to  predict,  as  he  encountered  the 
latest  Dallas  scheme  for  a  'paper  bank,'  that  should  news  of  peace  arrive 
that  day,  the  measure  would  not  receive  a  single  vote.  The  news  arrived 
that  very  hour.  For  the  second  time  in  a  month,  all  America  turned  out  for 
an  orgy  of  celebration.  In  Washington,  bonfires  threw  weird  shadows  across 
the  ruined  buildings;  at  the  Octagon  House,  Calhoun,  caught  in  a  'stifling' 
mass  of  humanity,  saw  the  President,  smiling  and  confident  once  more,  and 
beside  him  Queen  Dolly,  her  cheeks  aglow  under  her  paint.  Politics  melted 
away  in  congratulations.  The  Marine  Band  blared;  wine  flowed  freely  in 
the  Presidential  reception  rooms  and  the  servants'  hall.  The  war  was  over! 


11 

A  useless  war,  history  would  call  it.  History  would  deal  harshly  with 
those  'brawling  boys'  from  the  frontier,  who,  drunk  on  dreams  of  Canada 
and  Florida  and  'a  new  United  States,  whipped  and  bullied  their  country 
into  a  world  holocaust  for  which  it  was  as  unprepared  as  it  was  unwilling.' 


100  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

Yet  from  all  the  blaze  of  surplus  powder  and  shot,  one  fact  rises  clear. 
We  emerged  from  the  war  thinking  we  were  a  great  nation.  And  armed 
with  this  delusion  we  were  able  to  exist  most  comfortably  until  the 
thought  became  fact. 

If  America  and  England  are  united  in  a  common  destiny  and  a  com- 
mon responsibility  to  the  world  of  the  future,  it  was  the  War  Hawks  of 
1812  that  made  the  fulfillment  of  this  destiny  possible.  In  1783,  America 
had  won  her  independence,  but  not  her  equality.  And  only  as  an  equal 
could  she  play  the  role  that  she  was  fated  to  play.  The  war  had  been 
a  psychological  necessity.  We  see  this  in  the  War  Boys*  own  words,  in 
their  braggart  boasts  and  bluster.  We  can  see  the  wrinkled  brow  of  the 
young  British  Minister,  Foster,  when  Henry  Clay  talked  glibly  of  war 
as  a  'duel'  which  a  proud  young  nation  might  fight  Ho  prevent  .  .  .  be- 
ing bullied  and  elbowed.'  We  find  it  in  the  observation  of  the  shrewd 
Thomas  Lowe  Nichols,  who  could  not  'remember  the  time  when  the  idea 
of  a  war  with  England  was  not  popular';  and  in  the  assertion  of  a  Con- 
gressman that  'The  only  way  to  please  John  Bull  is  to  give  him  a  good 
beating,  and  .  .  .  the  more  you  beat  him,  the  greater  is  his  respect.'  We 
find  it  in  Calhoun's  cry  for  a  'Second  American  Revolution,'  and  in  Clay's 
embarrassing  appeals  to  the  British  Minister  as  to  what  his  country  would 
think  of  us  if  we  didn't  fight;  and  his  fervent  boasts  that  we  could  'wait 
a  little  longer  with  France'  after  silencing  'the  insolence  of  British  can- 
non.' In  the  opinion  of  the  War  Hawks  war  alone  would  compel  Britain 
and  the  world  to  recognize  the  United  States  as  a  sovereign  and  equal 
member  of  the  family  of  nations.  Only  by  the  sword  could  we  win  a 
friendship  based  upon  mutual  respect.  The  war,  said  Henry  Clay,  would 
leave  the  two  nations  'better  friends  than  they  had  ever  been  before.' 5* 


vm 

Toward  a  Broadening   Union 


Now  THAT  THE  WAR  WAS  OVER,  no  one  was  more  surprised  than  the  War 
Hawks  to  discover  how  popular  it  had  been.  As  Albert  Gallatin  said:  'The 
war  .  .  .  renewed  the  national  feeling  which  the  Revolution  had  given.  .  .  . 
The  people  .  .  .  are  more  Americans ;  they  feel  and  act  as  a  nation.'  x 

His  words  were  true.  The  unity,  so  sought  for  hi  the  hardships  of  war 
had  become  a  reality  in  the  joy  of  peace.  The  naval  victories  of  Hull  and 
Decatur  were  American  victories;  the  Battle  of  New  Orleans  was  a  West- 
ern victory;  and  of  the  entire  country,  the  West  was  most  nationalistic  in 
spirit.  The  abortive  Hartford  Convention  had  united  the  people  as  only  a 
major  battle  could  have  done.  It  had  become  a  sneering  byword  across 
the  country,  and  the  label  of  Federalist  was  enough  to  damn  the  political 
prospects  of  any  man.  'Clay,  Calhoun,  Grundy,  and  Company'  found 
themselves  undisputed  leaders,  not  of  their  party  alone,  but  of  the  coun- 
try at  large. 

Internationally,  too,  the  victory  had  repercussions.  By  the  great  powers 
of  the  world — France,  as  well  as  England — the  United  States  had  been 
'kicked  and  cuffed  about'  like  'an  illegitimate  child  in  the  family  of  na- 
tions.' Now,  as  Calhoun  exulted,  America  'ceased  to  have  merely  a  puta- 
tive rank  among  the  great  countries  of  the  world.'  She  had  shaken  oft 
her  'thralldom  of  thought.'  2 


For  Calhoun,  in  the  spring  of  1815,  the  'extreme  delight'  he  had  felt  at 
the  defeat  of  John  Bull  was  of  short  duration.  It  was  good  to  be  home 
again,  to  look  into  the  eyes  of  his  young  wife  from  whom  he  had  been 
separated  so  long,  to  walk  through  the  quiet  of  his  own  fields  and  to  feel 
the  cool,  wet  noses, of  his  hounds  pressing  into  his  hands.  Little  Andrew 
was  there,  three  years  old  now,  and  running  to  meet  his  father;  and  baby 
Floride,  toddling  across  the  floor  in  her  first  few  steps.  She  was  fourteen 
months  old,  just  beginning  to  walk  and  talk,  and  her  father  never  tired  of 
watching  her  as  she  chattered  and  laughed  and  ran  all  over  the  house. 
Then  on  a  balmy  April  night  he  and  Floride  were  aroused  by  the  sound 


102  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

of  vomiting.  The  baby  was  sick!  Florida  could  reach  out  her  hand  and 
feel  the  hot  little  body  in  its  three-sided  crib,  fitted  against  their  own  bed. 
They  arose,  lighted  candles.  It  was  nothing,  they  were  sure.  Young  children 
were  often  taken  so. 

An  hour  passed.  The  child  was  no  better.  Her  flesh  was  burning  hot. 
Slowly,  light  crept  around  the  curtains.  Calhoun  could  see  'the  wildness' 
in  the  baby's  eyes.  Terrified,  he  sent  a  servant  for  the  doctor.  They  waited. 
At  last  the  slave  returned — alone.  Dr.  Casey  had  gone  to  Augusta. 

'Everything  was  done  .  .  .  but  in  vain/  Calhoun  wrote  afterward. 
Morning  light  poured  into  the  room,  on  the  tumbled  crib  where  the 
little  body  lay,  limp  and  still;  on  Calhoun 's  haggard  face  and  Floride's 
swollen  eyes.  Calhoun  stooped  over  the  body  of  his  firstborn  daughter 
...  a  part  of  himself  wrenched  away  ...  his  own  flesh  and  bone  and 
blood. 

Floride  broke  down.  Fighting  back  his  own  pain,  Calhoun  turned  to 
his  grief-stricken  wife.  Perhaps,  he  suggested,  it  was  God's  plan.  'Provi- 
dence may  have  intended  it  in  kindness  to  her.'  Who  could  know  whether 
she  would  have  been  happy  had  she  lived?  .  .  .  'We  know  that  she  is 
far  more  happy  than  she  could  be  here  with  us.'  But  Floride  broke  into 
fresh  paroxysms  of  grief.  It  was  in  vain  that  Calhoun  told  her  that  al- 
most all  parents  had  suffered  the  same  calamity;  every  word  of  conso- 
lation that  he  clumsily  attempted  only  grieved  the  broken-hearted  mother 
the  more.  'She  thinks  only  of  her  dear  child  .  .  .  every  thing  that  made 
her  interesting,  thus  furnishing  additional  food  for  her  grief.' 3 

The  house  quiet  at  last,  Calhoun  wrote  his  mother-in-law  of  'the 
heaviest  calamity  that  has  ever  occured  to  us  ...  our  dear  child  .  .  . 
but  a  few  hours  before  .  .  .  our  comfort  and  delight.  So  healthy,  so  cheer- 
ful, so  stought.  .  .  .  She  could  hardly  walk  When  I  returned.  .  .  .  She 
is  gone  alas!  from  us  forever;  and  has  left  nothing  behind  but  our  grief 
and  tears.'  * 


It  was  harder  than  ever  for  Calhoun  to  leave  Floride  that  fall.  That  there 
would  be  another  child  in  the  spring  to  take  the  place  of  little  Floride 
added  to  his  cares,  for  he  had  lost  all  faith  in  the  availability  of  country 
doctors,  and  was  determined  that  his  wife  should  go  to  Charleston  for  her 
labor.  Little  Andrew  was  ill  with  a  lingering  fever;  and  it  was  of  home,  not 
Washington,  that  Calhoun  thought  as  he  stood  beside  the  aging  John 
Taylor  of  Caroline  on  the  deck  of  the  steam  packet  to  Washington.  Only 
the  trust  that  Floride  would  write  him  by  every  mail  eased  his  mind.5 

Conversation  with  Taylor  was  little  calculated  to  lift  Calhoun  from 
his  depression.  The  future  looked  dark  to  the  old  Jeffersonian  agrarian. 
He  was  dubious  of  this  'shifting  restless'  acquisitive  nation,  sprung  full- 


VHI  TOWARD  A  BROADENING  UNION  103 

grown  from  the  battlefield,  with  progress  the  first  law  of  its  being  and 
realism  laid  away  with  powdered  wigs  and  small-dothes. 

The  war  had  brought  into  focus  the  differing  interests  of  the  three 
sections  of  the  country.  Landless  masses  were  piling  pell-mell  into  the 
cities  of  the  East;  farms  were  dotting  the  democratic  West;  beyond,  lay  an 
unbroken  immensity,  too  broad  for  dreams,  too  great  for  individual  enter- 
prise. In  the  South  was  the  trend  from  the  farm  to  the  plantation,  from 
self-sufficiency  to  cotton.  Already  North  and  South  meant  a  criss-cross 
of  opposing  economic  interests,  and  where  would  it  end?  e  Agriculture, 
said  Taylor,  was  'the  only  productive  dass  of  labor';  monopoly  and  in- 
cdrporation  were  spreading  over  Europe;  and  'America  would  be  forced  to 
a  choice  between  agrarianism  and  capitalism,  for  the  two  were  utterly 
incompatible.' T 

True  democracy,  Taylor  could  have  told  Calhoun,  was  only  possible 
among  equals.  Economic  inequalities  had  wrecked  every  democratic  pro- 
gram of  the  past.  What  hope  could  there  be  for  a  middle-class  society, 
frankly  based  on  the  exploitation  of  the  laboring  by  the  moneyed  dasses? 

Calhoun  understood.  He  had  been  aware  of  sectional  conflicts  from  the 
beginning.  Perhaps  the  most  remarkable  prophecy  of  his  life  was  uttered, 
not  in  the  eighteen-thirties  or  forties,  but  on  a  fall  night  in  1812  in  Mrs. 
Bushby's  sitting  room.  There,  young  Charles  Stewart,  later  captain  of  the 
U.S.S.  Constitution,  had  told  Calhoun  that  he  was  'puzzled'  at  the  alliance 
of  the  Southern  planters  with  the  'Northern  Democracy.  .  *  .  You  are 
decidedly  the  aristocratic  portion  of  this  Union.  »  .  ,  You  neither  work 
with  your  hands,  heads,  nor  any  machinery  .  .  .  have  your  living  by  the 
sweat  of  slavery,  and  yet  .  .  .  assume  the  professions  of  democracy.' 

Calhoun  had  admitted  it.  'That  we  are  essentially  aristocratic,  I  cannot 
deny;  but  ...  we  yield  much  to  democracy.'  Stewart  was  losing  sight 
'of  the  political  and  sectional  policy  of  the  people.'  The  South  was  'from 
necessity'  wedded  to  the  Northern  Democracy,  for  it  is  through  'our  af- 
filiation with  that  party  in  the  Middle  and  Western  States  that  we  hold 
power.'  Yet,  prophesied  Calhoun,  when  the  South  ceased  'to  control  this 
nation'  it  would  'resort  to  the  dissolution  of  the  Union.'  The  constitu- 
tional compromises  were  'sufficient  for  our  fathers,  but,  under  the  altered 
conditions  of  our  country  from  that  period,  leave  to  the  South  no  resource 
but  dissolution.' 8 

Thus,  in  1812,  could  the  young  man,  who  had  grown  up  in  the  school 
which  looked  upon  the  Union  only  as  an  experiment,  contemplate  its 
inevitable  disruption.  He  was  unshaken  at  this  early  period  by  the  love  of 
country  which  grew  upon  Mm  year  by  year,  so  that  he  exhausted  a  life- 
time of  strength  in  futile  attempts  to  stave  off  the  doom  which  from  the 
first  his  pitiless  logic  showed  him  was  inevitable.  Now,  his  patriotism, 
fused  in  the  fire  of  war,  failed  to  recognize  defeat.  Already  he  knew  that 
in  statecraft  his  task  would  be  to  fit  the  political  framework,  designed  for 


104  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

a  compact,  pastoral  republic,  to  a  sprawling,  fast-growing,  industrial  de- 
mocracy. 

He  knew  the  dangers  that  diversity  would  bring.  To  him,  the  Union 
seemed  a  fragile  thing,  too  delicately  wrought  to  stand  'on  the  cold  cal- 
culation of  interest,  alone  ...  too  weak  to  stand  political  convulsions. 
...  I  feel  no  disposition  to  deny,'  he  had  said,  as  early  as  1814,  that  if 
the  majority  ceased  'to  consult  the  general  interest  ...  it  would  be 
more  dangerous  than  a  factious  minority.' 9  Party  'rage,'  he  saw  as  the 
great  'weakness  of  all  free  governments/  and  precedent  as  scarcely  less 
dangerous.  'It  is  not  unusual,'  he  had  said  two  years  earlier,  'for  executive 
power,  unknown  to  those  who  exercise  it,  to  make  encroachments.  .  .  . 
What  has  been  the  end  of  all  free  governments,  but  open  force,  or  the 
gradual  undermining  of  the  legislative  by  the  executive  power?  The 
peculiar  construction  of  ours  by  no  means  exempts  us  from  this  evil.  .  .  . 
Were  it  not  for  the  habits  of  the  people  we  would  naturally  tend  that 
way.7  What  he  desired  was  'the  whole'  of  the  government  in  'full  posses- 
sion of  its  primitive  powers,  but  all  of  the  parts  confined  to  their  respec- 
tive spheres.'10  So  he  spoke  in  1812;  and  again  in  1833  and  1848. 

Fragmentary  as  these  observations  are,  their  remarkable  prophecies 
alone  make  them  worthy  of  serious  study.  More  important,  they  offer  con- 
clusive proof  of  an  assertion  that  'if  the  young  Galhoun  had  been  asked 
to  define  the  relations  of  the  State  to  the  General  Government,  he  would 
have  used  language  not  very  different  from  that  with  which  he  was  after- 
wards to  defy  Webster  or  Jackson.5  "•  Clearly,  what  he  was  already  de- 
fining as  'the  conflict  between  the  States  and  General  Government'  was 
not  yet  uppermost  in  his  mind.  Nevertheless,  he  had  said  enough  to  show 
that  basically  the  Calhoun  of  1815  and  the  Calhoun  of  1833  were  one  man. 

For  eighty  years  historians  have  divided  Calhoun's  public  career  into 
two  sharply  defined  sections:  one,  nationalist,  the  other,  sectionalist.  This 
is  an  oversimplification.  Basically  Calhoun  was  at  once  a  nationalist  and 
a  sectionalist  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  his  career.  In  1815  he 
represented  a  majority;  by  1833  those  who  thought  as  he  did  were  in  the 
minority,  which  explains  where  the  difference  lay.  In  1815  he  was  as 
representative  of  the  frontier  farmers  as  he  later  became  of  the  planting 
South;  but  in  1815  the  frontier  stretched  all  the  way  from  rock-tipped 
Maine  to  the  Alabama  border.  Like  other  nationalists,  Daniel  Webster 
included,  Calhoun  was  always  to  demand  first  protection  for  his  immedi- 
ate constituency.12 

Now,  despite  John  Taylor's  warnings,  Calhoun  saw  no  interest  inimical 
to  that  Southern  life  he  loved.  The  difference  between  the  Calhoun  of 
1815  and  the  Calhoun  of  1833  is  a  matter  of  knowledge,  not  of  philosophy. 
Bitter  experience  divides  the  confident  young  patriot  who  had  yet  to  learn 
the  dangers  of  nationalism  and  the  worn-out  statesman  in  whom  hope  was 
almost  dead.  For  it  is  'not  inconsistent  that  a  man  should  allow  much 


Vin  TOWARD  A  BROADENING  UNION  105 

freedom  to  a  partner  whom  he  still  trusts,  which  he  would  be  reluctant  to 
allow  to  one  of  whom  he  has  come  to  be  suspicious.' M 

To  Calhoun,  the  future  was  a  'could  be/  not  a  'would  be.'  He  failed 
to  heed  his  own  warnings.  He  trusted  his  heart,  not  his  head.  He  had 
faith  and  hope;  he  had  confidence  in  the  'virtue  and  intelligence  of  the 
American  people'  Later,  he  would  change  his  mind.  A  nationalistic  Amer- 
ica, which  practiced  as  well  as  preached  'the  general  welfare'  could  con- 
ceivably have  endured  on  the  principle  of  majority  rule;  but  a  nation 
which  had  divided  into  states,  regions,  and  groups  must  find  other  means 
for  that  'justice'  which  Calhoun  in  1813  defined  as  the  'prime  objective 
of  government'  to  survive.  It  would  be  Calhoun's  task  to  seek  ways  of 
both  restraining  and  satisfying  the  'cold'  calculations  which  he  had  pre- 
dicted might  destroy  the  Union,  so  that,  in  disproof  of  his  own  predictions, 
the  Union  would  endure. 


Never  had  Washington  been  more  brilliant  than  in  that  triumphant  post- 
war fall  of  1815.  Never  had  there  been  such  feverish  pursuit  of  pleasure 
nor  such  beautiful  women  to  join  the  pursuit.  In  tiny  hamlets  and  farms, 
all  the  way  from  southern  Maine  to  northern  Georgia,  fathers  and  mothers 
mourned  sons  buried  at  Lundy's  Lane  or  Tippecanoe,  or  drowned  off 
Jamaica;  young  widows  mourned  the  happiness  they  had  lost,  and  un- 
wed and  unsought  girls  the  happiness  they  could  now  never  know.  But 
for  those  with  politically  hopeful  or  successful  parents,  a  future  still 
beckoned.  There  were  men  enough  in  Washington,  and,  it  was  said,  never 
enough  girls  to  go  around.  So  while  outside  a  nation  mourned,  inside 
Washington  girls  in  lace  ruffs  and  'macaroni'  gowns  of  velvet  and  satin, 
their  eager  lips  'pink  with  cherry  paste,'  their  slim  arms  leaving  white 
streaks  along  the  dark  coats  of  their  partners,  laughed  and  flirted  with 
great  men  in  rooms  so  crowded  that  onlookers  'could  only  see  the  heads,' 
and  stood  upon  the  benches,  'the  heat  was  so  great.' 15 

Dolly  Madison,  Queen  Dolly,  who  could  rouge  her  cheeks  and  serve 
cabbage  and  fried  eggs  at  a  State  dinner  and  still  be  a  great  lady,  was 
queening  it  at  the  Octagon  House.  The  'President's  Palace'  was  still  a 
mass  of  smoke-stained  rubble,  but  the  stately  mansion  on  the  corner  of 
New  York  Avenue  and  Eighteenth  Street  made  up  in  beauty  what  it 
lacked  in  size.  Visitors  could  step  from  the  circular  marble  hall  on  the 
ground  floor  into  one  of  the  drawing  rooms  where  Dolly  and  her  'with- 
ered little  applejohn,  Jemmy,'  were  waiting  before  the  mantel.  Feminine 
visitors  would  note  the  window  curtains  of  blue  'embossed  cambric'  with 
red  silk  fringe,  the  two  little  couches  covered  with  blue  'patch'  and  the 
'pretty  French  chairs  .  .  .  covered  with  striped  rich  blue  silk,' as  Mrs.  Mary 
Crowninshield  noted.  They  chattered  of  Commodore  Porter's  young  wife, 


106  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

who  was  conceded  to  be  ca  very  pretty  little  woman';  and  of  Mrs.  Henry 
Clay,  who  dashed  the  hopes  of  innumerable  'mantrap7  girls  by  her  ap- 
pearance in  the  capital  early  in  1815.  Her  white  merino  dresses  were  Very 
tasty';  there  was  praise,  too,  for  her  children,  all  in  white  or  black  silk 
aprons;  but  all  agreed  that  although  Mrs.  William  H.  Crawford's  husband 
may  have  been  Minister  to  the  Court  of  France,  she  had  'never  before 
been  from  the  country,  *  .  .  and  seldom  looks  neat/ 16 

And  through  the  drawing  rooms  walked  Dolly  Madison,  'a  tall,  portly, 
elegant  lady  with  a  turban  on  her  forehead  and  a  book  in  her  hand/ 1T 
charming  Henry  Clay  as  she  took  a  pinch  from  his  gold  snuffbox,  pushed 
it  up  her  nose  with  a  red  handkerchief  'for  the  rough  work,  Mr.  Clay/ 
and  dusted  off  with  a  tiny  lace  'polisher';  soothing  the  jangled  nerves  of  an 
admiring  young  countryman  by  ignoring  the  fact  that,  in  his  excitement  at 
seeing  the  President's  wife,  he  had  hastily  slipped  a  full  cup  of  hot  tea 
into  his  breeches'  pocket; 18  intriguing  John  Calhoun  as  she  matched  the 
nimbleness  of  his  eager  mind  with  her  witty  knowledge  of  men  and  books 
and  affairs. 

Calhoun  liked  Dolly  Madison.  And  of  all  the  War  Mess,  Clay  and  Cal- 
houn were  her  favorites.  Now  with  the  war  over,  Calhoun  went  to  the 
Presidential  receptions,  although  he  probably  would  have  heartily  sec- 
onded the  New  Englander,  Amos  Kendall,  who  declared  he  would  rather 
give  the  girl  he  loved  'one  kiss  than  attend  a  thousand  such  parties.'19 

Even  Madison  could  relax  now  from  the  'cold  and  stiff'  manner  of  his 
war  years.  'The  bottle  circulated  freely'  at  his  dinner  table,  and  warmed 
by  wine  the  President  would  tell  'with  great  archness'  anecdotes  of  'a 
somewhat  loose  description.'  Red-haired,  fastidious  young  William  Camp- 
bell Preston,  who  was  proud  of  being  'much  with  the  War  Hawks,'  was 
disgusted  by  the  'habitual  smut'  of  these  stories.  He  noticed  admiringly, 
however,  that  his  hero,  Calhoun,  although  a  favorite  at  parties,  was  the 
only  one  of  all  of  them  whose  own  'conversation  was  uncontaminated  by 
such  impurity.'  *  ^ 

It  was  a  man's  world.  For  the  men's  pleasure  were  the  drinks  poured 
and  the  hostesses  selected,  'young  enough  to  look  entrancing  in  candle- 
light and  old  enough  to  juggle  discreetly  with  small  gossip  and  large  pub- 
lic affairs,'  The  men  were  lionized;  the  men  were  the  heroes.  You  saw 
them  all  at  the  Madisons',  the  last  of  the  great  dynasty  of  Virginia:  tall, 
shambling  John  Marshall,  with  his  rough  hair  and  hearty  laugh  and  the 
tumbled  dothes  that  looked  as  if  he  had  picked  them  out  in  some  for- 
gotten second-hand  shop;  little  James  Monroe,  exquisite  in  small-clothes 
and  flashing  knee-buckles;  'our  western  hero/  gaunt,  horse-faced  William 
Henry  Harrison;  and  the  skeleton-like  figure  of  John  Randolph,  silver 

*  The  quotations,  by  permission  of  the  Chapel  Hill  Press,  are  from  The  Reminis- 
cences of  William  Preston,  edited  by  Minnie  Clare  Yarborough,  Chapel  Hill,  North 
Carolina,  1933,  pp.  7-8. 


VIII  TOWARD   A  BROADENING  UNION  107 

spurs  twinkling  in  the  candlelight,  forty-two  now,  but  from  a  distance 
still  like  a  fragile  boy  of  sixteen,  and  at  close  range  with  his  fever-parched 
lips  and  dry  sallow  skin  clinging  to  the  bopes  Of  his  fleshless  fingers,  like 
a  very  old  man.21  There,  too,  came  John  P.  Kennedy,  author  of  Swallow 
Barn,  tall,  robustious  William  H.  Crawford,  and  the  squat,  ruddy,  square- 
jawed  Minister  to  England,  Mr.  John  Quincy  Adams. 

In  Dolly  Madison's  drawing  room,  Calhoun  and  his  colleagues  could 
exchange  ideas  with  some  of  the  greatest  names  America  had  yet  pro- 
duced. Yet  they  themselves  commanded  almost  equal  attention.  The 
older  generation  was  keenly  aware  of  the  drive  and  latent  strength  in 
this  new  crop  of  statesmen,  none  yet  forty;  and  John  Randolph  spoke 
for  public  opinion  when  he  said,  'Henry  Clay's  eye  is  on  the  Presidency 
and  my  eye  is  on  him.'  **  Clay,  Calhoun,  and  Webster — in  that  order — 
few  could  doubt  that  in  the  hands  of  these  three  the  future  history  of 
America  was. already  in  the  making. 

Daniel  Webster  was  the  unknown  quantity.  More  than  either  of  his 
colleagues,  his  power  was  in  physical  presence.  With  his  great  head  and 
the  magnificent  sweep  of  his  shoulders,  the  dark,  brooding  eyes  that 
could  pierce  or  burn,  he  focused  attention  from  the  instant  he  stepped  into 
a  room.  Many  had  already  succumbed  to  the  musical  witchery  of  his 
voice;  few  could  say  where  or  for  what  he  stood;  but  all  sensed  the  un- 
tapped depths  of  his  power. 

Sheer  emotion  summed  up  Henry  Clay.  It  was  this  impulsive,  optimistic, 
one-time  farm  boy  of  'the  Slashes'  who  personified  the  new  spirit  of  Amer- 
ican democracy,  audacious  and  domineering.  No  doubts  beset  him,  none  of 
the  uncertainties  that  troubled  Webster,  nor  the  introspective  questionings 
that  haunted  Calhoun.  Action  he  found  more  congenial  than  thought;  a 
courtroom  quarrel  had  ended  in  a  fist-fight  with  the  opposition  lawyer,  for 
which  the  Kentuckian  had  willingly  paid  his  fine  of  fifteen  dollars.28  Al- 
ready he  had  hit  upon  the  conviction  that  the  first  responsibility  of  gov- 
ernment was  to  help  its  citizens  to  make  money;  *  and  the  fresh-coined 
slogan  of  'American  System'  had  meanings  both  for  the  Western  masses, 
seeking  capital  and  federal  aid  for  the  opening  of  their  young  empire,  and 
the  Eastern  capitalists,  seeking  new  sources  of  raw  goods  for  their  fac- 
tories. 

Yet  Clay  compelled  as  well  by  sheer  physical  magnetism.  His  charm 
overweighed  his  complacent  belief  that  he  had  never  met  his  superior, 
and  an  opponent  declined  a  personal  meeting  because  he  would  not  sub- 
ject himself  to  Clay's  fascination.  Women  also  were  keenly  susceptible 
to  the  long-legged  'fascinating  ugliness'  of  this  blithe  'gamester  in  politics,' 
with  his  gay  mouth  and  eyes  that  'could  gaze  an  eagle  blind.' 

For  Calhoun,  too,  'the  fair'  had  glances  of  unabashed  interest.  His  black 
suits  accentuating  his  height  and  slenderness,  his  thick  hair  falling  loose 
about  his  temples,  and  the  deep  eyes  of  his  Covenanter  ancestors  now 


108  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

sparkling  with  eagerness,  now  dark  with  emotion,  he  was  a  striking  figure. 
Yet  the  most  fervent  contemporary  tribute  to  the  Southerner's  'personal 
beauty/  his  erect  and  'finely  made7  figure,  now  neither  'spare  nor  robust,' 
his  grace  and  animation,  are  attributed,  not  to  a  woman,  but  to  Josiah 
Quincy  of  Boston.25  For  most  feminine  tastes  Calhoun's  features  would 
have  been  too  strongly  marked,  too  stern.  The  impression  he  gave  was 
far  more  of  drive  and  strength  than  of  mere  good  looks.  There  was  a 
quality  of  excitement  about  him,  of  suppressed  fire,  of  forces  held  in  leash. 
In  him  you  felt  something  of  the  same  fierce  intellectual  vitality  that  men 
had  known  in  the  young  Hamilton. 

Even  his  enemies  conceded  him  to  be  'an  engaging,  attractive  man.'  He 
had  a  disarming  modesty  with  the  great,  and  with  his  inferiors,  whether 
in  age  or  position,  then  as  later,  his  manners  were  not  only  agreeable, 
'but  even  fascinating.'26  He  was  'an  intense  and  vibrant  personality,'27 
interested  in  books  and  people  and  ideas,  quick  to  smile  with  the  exuber- 
ance of  youth,  yet  with  a  mature  steadiness  of  purpose. 

All  acknowledged  his  'genius  for  leadership.'  Already  he  was  coming 
to  be  recognized  as  spokesman  for  the  lower  South,  interpreter  of  its  aims 
and  ideals.  Reserved,  almost  shy,  with  no  attempts  at  assertiveness,  he 
could  make  himself  felt  in  gatherings  of  men  twice  his  years. 

He  knew  his  power.  As  one  South  Carolina  historian  has  put  it:  'He  was 
a  great  statesman,  a  man  of  pure  and  high  principles,  but  he  believed 
firmly  in  himself,  nor  did  his  greatness  ever  exceed  the  estimate  he  en- 
tertained of  it.' **  In  the  earlier  days  he  had  lain  sleepless  night  after  night, 
wondering  if  he  could  succeed  in  the  capital  as  he  had  in  Abbeville.29 
Now  not  even  the  House  satisfied  his  energies. 

His  fame  was  becoming  nation-wide.  In  Connecticut,  old  classmates 
from  Yale  and  Litchfield  had  vivid  memories  of  the  young  man  who  had 
shown  such  'great  abilities  and  great  ambition'  from  the  beginning.  A 
former  classmate  who  was  elected  to  Congress  looked  forward  to  a  re- 
newal of  their  acquaintance.  He  was  'kindly  received'  and  was  struck  by 
the  impact  of  Calhoun's  personality,  but  was  rapidly  convinced  that  the 
South  Carolinian  had  'already  given  up  to  ambition  what  was  meant  for 
mankind.' 80 

Calhoun  was  consciously  improving  his  oratory.  During  the  War-Hawk 
days,  his  power  had  been  in  logic,  physical  presence,  emotional  intensity. 
His  style  had  been  simple,  direct,  forceful;  on  the  frontier  hustings  he 
had  long  since  become  master  of  'every  trick  ...  by  which  a  mass  of 
ignorant  and  turbulent  voters'  can  be  held  to  attention.81 

But  Congress,  if  turbulent,  was  not  ignorant;  and  Calhoun  well  knew 
how  much  he  had  yet  to  learn  of  the  'graces  and  elegances'  of  public 
speaking.  Even  the  admiring  Ritchie  regretfully  admitted  that  Calhoun 
was  'not  eloquent/  and  a  South  Carolina  contemporary  described  the 
young  floor  leader  as  a  man  of  great  sensitivity,  but  'little  imagination' 


VHI  TOWARD  A  BROADENING  UNION  109 

and  'a  rapid,  though  limited  eloquence.'  He  had  the  advantage,  reported 
the  critic,  of  an  excellent  education,  and  'astonishing  powers  of  memory.' 
But  foremost  was  his  'charming  metaphysical  analysis,  and  ...  an  apt 
sagacity,  almost  peculiar  to  him.' 82 

Calhoun  was  aware  of  his  weaknesses.  Wisely,  he  determined  not  to 
aim  for  the  graces  which  he  sensed  were  alien  to  him,  but  to  build  upon 
his  natural  powers.  Not  style  but  content  would  be  his  aim;  not  display 
but  simplicity  of  speech  and  gesture.  His  voice  was  not  musical,  but  it 
was  vibrant  and  strong;  he  would  cultivate  it  until  it  was  full  and  clear 
and  its  syllables  'fell  pleasantly  upon  the  ear.'  He  could  perfect  his  dic- 
tion. The  results  were  effective.  Before  he  left  Congress,  a  journalist 
would  describe  him  as  'the  most  elegant  speaker  who  sits  in  the  House/ 
his  gestures  graceful  and  easy,  confining  himself  always  to  his  subject, 
and  having  finished  what  he  had  to  say,  being  done.  Even  Lowndes  was 
amazed  at  his  improvement,  declaring  that  he  only  wanted  to  see  the 
'degree  of  eminence  he  would  reach  by  practice.' M 


Calhoun  threw  himself  into  his  Congressional  duties  with  a  zest  which 
would  have  astonished  his  South  Carolina  friends  who  had  seen  him  only 
a  few  weeks  before.  Early  in  the  session  which  opened  December  4,  1815, 
exhausted  by  the  long  strain  of  war  and  depressed  by  the  loss  of  his 
child,  he  seems  to  have  had  some  idea  of  arranging  a  plan  for  the  pay- 
ment of  the  public  debt  and  then  returning  permanently  to  Floride  and 
the  farm  near  his  brother  Patrick.  But  ambition  was  too  strong.  In  the 
exhilaration  of  post-war  America,  his  momentary  listlessness  was  swept 
away.  He  resumed  leadership  with  the  same  cool  self-confidence  of  his 
war  days.  Only  thirty-three,  he  was  still  one  of  the  youngest  men  in  the 
House,  but  along  with  Clay,  he  cracked  the  whip  of  authority.  Great 
tasks  remained  to  be  done;  blueprints  for  a  broadening  Union  dominated 
his  thinking.  Even  during  the  war,  in  those  soaring  moments  when  he 
had  given  in  to  what  he  frankly  admitted  was  cthe  fervour  of  my  feelings,' 
he  had  visualized  what  the  Union  could  become.  Peace  had  given  his 
dreams  release,  and  glowing  through  even  his  most  routine  speeches  of 
the  post-war  years  is  his  vision  for  America. 

Yet  he  indulged  in  none  of  the  highly  colored  rhapsodies,  already  glib 
on  the  tongues  of  his  companions.  Caution  restrained  him.  America  could 
not,  must  not  be  subjected  to  another  war.  He  put  no  faith  in  peace 
treaties.  Even  in  February,  1815,  amidst  the  clamor  for  peace  and  return 
of 'the  service  men,  he  had  warned:  'It  is  easier  to  keep  soldiers  than  to  get 
them.'  Our  frontiers  and  seaports  must  be  kept  guarded.  Had  England 
foregone  the  principle  of  impressment?  Not  at  all;  peace  in  Europe  had 


110  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

merely  freed  her  from  the  necessity  of  impressment.  clf  ever  an  American 
citizen  should  be  forcibly  impressed,'  Calhoun  warned,  'I  would  be  ready 
again  to  draw  the  sword.7  w 


Hence  in  his  first  speech  of  the  peacetime  session  in  December,  1815, 
Calhoun  warned  against  a  repeal  of  the  Act  of  War,  characteristically 
basing  his  argument  on  fine-spun  constitutional  theorizing.  During  his  re- 
marks he  turned  briefly  to  'that  odious  traffic/  which  would  be  the  burden 
of  so  much  of  his  thought  in  later  years.  The  Constitution  had  intended 
that  the  slave-trade  'be  tolerated  until  1808.  ...  I  feel  ashamed  of  such 
a  tolerance,  and  take  a  large  part  of  the  disgrace,  as  I  represent  a  part  of 
the  Union,  by  whose  influence  it  might  be  supposed  to  have  been  intro- 
duced.' But  the  restriction  was  binding  on  all  'parties  to  the  Constitution.' 
Control  of  the  slave  power  did  not  rest  with  Congress  alone.35 

He  continued  his  dual  theme  of  militarism  and  Americanism  in  subse- 
quent speeches  on  the  Commercial  Treaty  and  the  proposed  repeal  of 
the  Direct  (War)  Tax.  Not  'present  ease'  was  his  aim,  but  'lasting  hap- 
piness. .  .  .  We  need  have  no  fears  of  militarism,7  he  declared.  Our 
people  would  take  up  arms,  only  in  defense  of  their  rights,  'not  for  ... 
conquest.'  Our  danger  was  apathy.  Our  people  were  inactive,  'except  in 
pursuit  of  wealth,5  Would  England  'look  unmoved  upon  this  prosperity?' 
We  still  had  'causes  of  conflict.  ...  If  Great  Britain  has  her  Wellington, 
we  have  our  Jackson,  Brown,  Scott  .  .  ,  they  have  plucked  the  laurel 
from  her  brows.' 

Our  strength  was  in  the  Navy.  A  strong  Navy  was  the  safest,  cheapest, 
and  most  effective  means  of  defense.  Our  Atlantic  coast  line  was  so  'long 
and  weak'  that  only  by  a  Navy  'can  it  be  effectively  defended.  .  .  .  We 
shall  have  peace  then  .  .  .  peace  with  perfect  security.' 

But  we  must  not  forget  our  military  strength.  He  hinted  of  compulsory 
military  training  in  his  demand  for  a  longer  training  period  than  six 
months  and  for  troops  obtained  by  'regular  draught'  from  'the  body  of 
the  people.36  ...  I  know  that  I  utter  truths  unpleasant  to  those  who 
wish  to  enjoy  liberty  without  making  the  efforts  necessary  to  secure  it.' 
An  'indifference  to  defence  was  the  first  symptom  of  decay.'  We  must 
build  military  roads,  'great  roads'  for  defense  and  for  'connecting  the 
interests  of  varied  sections  of  this  great  country.  ...  A  certain  encourage- 
ment should  be  extended  ...  to  our  woolen  and  cotton  manufacturers.' 
We  must  build  steam  frigates  and  fortify  the  Mississippi  and  the  Chesa- 
peake. How  these  last  objectives  were  to  be  accomplished  'he  would  leave 
to  the  military  men.' 87 

Such  aims,  he  knew,  would  'require  constant  sacrifice  on  the  part  of  the 
people,  but  are  they  on  that  account  to  be  rejected?'  He  would  not 


TOWARD  A  BROADENING  UNION  111 

'lull  the  people  into  false  security.  .  .  .  Convince  the  people  that  measures 
are  necessary  .  .  .  and  they  will  support  them.  .  .  /  Taxes  were  not 
oppressive  when  laid  for  prosperity  and  security,  for  'the  general  welfare. 
...  We  are  charged/  warned  Calhoun,  'by  Providence,  not  only  with  the 
happiness  of  this  great  people,  but  ...  with  that  of  the  human  race.  We 
have  a  government  of  a  new  order  .  .  .  founded  on  the  rights  of  man, 
resting  on  ...  reason.  If  it  shall  succeed  ...  it  will  be  the  commence- 
ment of  a  new  era  in  human  affairs.  All  civilized  governments  must  in 
the  course  of  time  conform  to  its  principles.'  But  this  nation,  the  'youthful 
Hercules,'  must  abjure  'love  of  pleasure'  and  'take  the  rugged  path  of  duty,' 
or  it  would  end  'in  a  dreary  wilderness.' 88 


For  the  disorder  of  the  currency,  too,  as  the  year  1816  opened,  Calhoun 
had  a  cure,  a  national  bank.  The  idea  was  nothing  new.  It  had  been  tried 
out  continuously  between  1791  and  1811,  and  this  latest  measure,  both  in 
wording  and  provisions,  was  startlingly  like  Alexander  Hamilton's  plan 
for  a  government  'financial  agent,'  twenty-five  years  before.  As  we  have 
seen,  the  question  of  a  Second  Bank  had  been  thrashed  out  during  the 
war,  with  Dallas's  last  'paper  bank/  strongly  opposed  by  Calhoun,  missing 
fire  in  the  excitement  of  Ghent  and  New  Orleans.  Now  Secretary  Dallas 
brought  the  Bank  out  once  more,  with  enough  concessions  to  Calhoun's 
ideas  for  the  South  Carolinian  to  introduce  the  bill  and  pilot  it  through 
the  House. 

Calhoun's  support  was  based  on  the  very  ground  upon  which  he  later 
opposed  it,  when,  in  twenty  years  of  operation,  the  Bank  actually  ag- 
gravated the  very  evils  it  was  supposed  to  remove.  In  theory,  Calhoun 
was  no  lover  of  banks,  national  or  otherwise,  but  the  'trash'  or  'rags/ 
masquerading  under  the  name  of  currency,  which  the  war  had  sown 
broadcast  over  the  country,  could  not  be  ignored.  Night  after  night  Cal- 
houn was  up,  pleading,  cajoling,  persuading  one  after  another  member  of 
the  opposition.  On  February  26,  1816,  he  supported  the  Bank  in  a  major 
address,  declaring  'The  condition  of  the  currency  ...  a  stain  on  public 
and  private  credit/  and  'opposed  to  the  principle  of  the  federal  constitu- 
tion/ which  had  permitted  only  Congress  the  power  to  regulate  the  cur- 
rency. Now  the  power  was  exercised  by  private  banking  institutions.  Gold 
and  silver  had  'disappeared.'  There  was  no  money  but  paper  money  which 
was  beyond  the  control  of  Congress.  Banks  were  issuing  inflationary 
amounts  of  paper  beyond  the  amount  'of  specie  in  their  vaults.'  The  banks 
held  forty  millions  in  public  stock.  They  were  making  loans  to  the  gov- 
ernment, not  as  brokers,  but  as  stockholders.  And  they  had  been  doing 
so  for  twelve  years. 


112  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

Naturally,  the  banks  were  opposed  to  the  new  measure.  'Banks  must 
change  their  nature,'  the  South  Carolinian  cynically  observed,  'before  they 
will  ever  voluntarily  aid  in  doing  what  it  is  not  their  interest  to"  do.'  But 
a  national  bank,  paying  specie,  would  force  all  banks  to  do  the  same.  'The 
disease  is  deep;  it  affects  public  opinion,  and  whatever  affects  public 
opinion  touches  the  vitals  of  government.' S9 

The  bill  was  passed  and  signed  April  16,  1816.  It  was  entirely  an  Ad- 
ministration measure.  It  provided  for  a  capitalization  of  only  $35,000,000, 
one-fifth  in  cash,  the  remainder  in  federal  stock,  of  which  the  government 
was  to  subscribe  $7,000,000.  Dallas  got  his  wish  for  a  close  government- 
bank  tieup,  with  the  clause  which  permitted  the  government  to  appoint 
five  out  of  the  twenty-five  directors.  But  Calhoun  won  out  with  the  pro- 
visions that  specie  payments  could  not  be  discontinued,  and  that  the 
Bank  could  make  no  loan  to  the  United  States  in  excess  of  $500,000, 
or  to  the  states  exceeding  $50,000.  A  final  clause  compelled  the  Bank  to 
pay  a  bonus  of  $1,500,000  to  the  government  for  its  franchise.  Hamil- 
tonian  the  measure  undoubtedly  was,  yet  as  a  means  to  an  end  it  was 
supported  by  its  old  enemy  of  1811,  Henry  Clay,  with  the  very  arguments 
that  Hamilton  had  used. 

Auxiliary  to  his  work  for  the  Bank,  and  at  the  actual  request  of  the 
Treasury  Department,  Calhoun  also  drew  up  a  plan  requiring  that  all 
debts  to  the  government  be  paid  entirely  in  coin,  Treasury  notes,  or  notes 
of  the  United  States  Bank.  The  clamor  from  the  state  banks,  whose  notes 
were  thus  excluded,  extended  into  the  halls  of  Congress,  and  in  the  House 
the  measure  was  lost  by  a  single  vote. 

Once  again  Calhoun  was  compelled  to  appeal  to  Daniel  Webster  for 
aid.  The  next  morning  the  New  Englander  introduced  his  own  bill,  similar 
in  meaning,  similar  in  wording,  and  supported  it  with  a  speech  so  logical 
and  persuasive  that  it  was  passed  by  a  large  majority  that  very  after- 
noon. Sheer  audacity  had  enabled  Webster  to  win  where  Calhoun  had 
lost.40 


8 

Then  on  a  warm  afternoon  in  April  occurred  one  of  the  most  disastrous 
incidents  in  Calhoun's  life. 

The  South  Carolinian  was  in  a  committee  room,  deeply  engrossed  in 
work  on  the  Bank  problem,  when  he  looked  up  to  find  a  friend  at  his  side. 
The  man's  face  was  grave.  The  House  was  in  an  uproar.  The  protective 
tariff  measure,  designed  not  only  for  the  stimulation  of  the  'infant'  Ameri- 
can industries  which  had  grown  up  during  the  war,  but  for  the  actual 
payment  of  the  war  debt,  was  under  attack.  Only  in  January,  Calhoun 
had  urged  that  manufactures  be  encouraged,  but  'still  in  a  military  view.' 


Vin  TOWARD  A  BROADENING  UNION  113 

Would  he  come  into  the  Chamber  now,  just  for  a  few  minutes  and  hold 
back  this  unexpected  tide?  tt 

Calhoun  hesitated.  He  had  'determined  to  be  silent'  in  this  debate.  He 
was  tired  after  'so  long  and  laborious  a  session'  and  now  only  wanted 
to  complete  his  work  and  return  Ho  the  bosom  of  his  family.'  He  had  no 
interest  in  the  question;  he  was  a  planter,  concerned,  like  his  constituents, 
only  with  'the  cultivation  of  the  soil,  in  selling  .  .  .  high  and  buying 
cheap.5 

The  gadfly  buzzed  on.  'What  shall  I  say?'  asked  Calhoun  wearily.  He 
was  not  prepared  to  speak;  'I  mean  not  a  verbal  preparation,  for  I  have 
ever  despised  such;  but  that  meditation  and  arrangement  of  thought 
which  the  House  is  entitled  to  on  the  part  of  those  who  occupy  any  por- 
tion of  their  time.' 42 

His  friend  pressed  him  further.  The  very  'right'  of  protection  was  under 
challenge.  The  'right'  of  protection.  Calhoun's  interest  snapped  to  atten- 
tion, and  within  five  minutes  he  was  on  the  House  floor,  saying  in  haste 
what  he  would  repent  at  leisure  all  his  life. 

His  words  were  brief — but  sufficient.  'Till  the  debate  assumed  this  new 
form/  he  explained,  he  had  not  intended  to  speak  at  all.  But  the  war 
had  destroyed  'our  two  .  .  .  leading  sources  of  wealth,  commerce  and 
agriculture.'  We  had  no  markets.  Our  cotton  goods  were  unprotected  from 
the  competition  of  goods  from  the  East  Indies.  'Neither  agriculture,  manu- 
factures, nor  commerce,  separately  is  the  cause  of  wealth;  it  flows  from 
the  three  combined.  Without  commerce,  industry  would  have  no  stimulus; 
without  manufactures,  it  would  be  without  the  means  of  production;  and 
without  agriculture,  neither  of  the  others  can  subsist.'  Sharply  he  con- 
demned the  theorists  who  believed  in  'the  Phantom  of  eternal  Peace/ 

'No  country  ought  to  be  dependent  upon  another,'  he  continued.  'When 
our  manufactures  are  grown  to  a  certain  perfection,  as  they  soon  will 
under  the  fostering  care  of  Government,  we  will  no  longer  experience  these 
evils.  The  farmer  will  find  a  ready  market  for  ...  all  his  wants.'  The 
war  had  compelled  America  to  turn  her  capital  to  manufacturing.  He  was 
aware  of  the  possible  evil  in  'dependence  on  the  part  of  the  employed' 
factory  workers,  but  he  could  not  see  that  the  English  soldiers  from  the 
manufacturing  districts  were  any  worse  than  the  others.  The  tariff  would 
'bind  together  our  widely  spread  Republic  ...  the  liberty  and  union 
of  this  country  are  inseparably  united.  .  .  .  Disunion.  This  single  word 
comprehends  almost  the  sum  of  our  political  dangers,  and  against  it  ... 
we  ought  to  be  perpetually  guarded.' 4S 

He  had  left  no  doubts  as  to  his  meaning.  Despite  his  later  concessions 
to  a  'small  permanent  protection,'  he  was  supporting  the  new  tariff 
primarily  as  a  measure  of  war  reconstruction.  It  was  as  a  gesture  of  unity 
and  concession  that  he  offered  his  support — 'not  for  South  Carolina,  but 
for  the  nation' — convinced,  as  he  was,  that  the  tariff  would  bring  a  har- 


114  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

monious  balance  to  the  three  great  interests  of  the  country.  He  would 
withdraw  his  support  twelve  years  later  because  it  had  done  exactly  the 
reverse.  His  tactics  had  changed,  not  his  strategy.  Nevertheless,  the  man 
who  in  1833  would  endeavor  to  restrict  Congressional  power  to  tariffs 
for  'revenue  only'  had  in  1816  taken  an  unqualified  stand  for  the  protec- 
tive policy  so  satisfying  to  the  most  ardent  of  high-tariff  supporters  that 
his  address  was  framed  and  tacked  upon  the  walls  of  taverns  and  bar- 
rooms beside  Washington's  Farewell  Address. 

Calhoun  himself,  despite  the  inner  qualms  that  were  troubling  him 
within  a  very  few  years,  did  not  feel  compelled  to  deny  the  support  of 
Pennsylvania  protectionists,  who  hailed  him  as  their  condidate  for  the 
Presidency.  He  did  not  know  that  the  measure  he  had  offered  to  the  na- 
tion as  a  whole  was  to  be  turned  against  his  own  people.  His  error  was 
the  error  of  virtually  the  whole  South;  and  if  'Mad  Jack'  Randolph  felt 
the  body  blow  that  protection  gave,  both  to  agriculture  and  the  'strict  con- 
struction' of  the  Constitution,  it  was  Thomas  Jefferson,  who  from  the 
blue  hills  of  Charlottesville  endorsed  protectionism  and  'joined  hands' 
with  Calhoun,  Lowndes,  and  Clay.44 


Despite  the  routine  that  absorbed  Calhoun  in  those  post-war  years,  he 
never  lost  sight  of  his  goal.  The  'broadening  Union'  was  always  foremost 
in  his  thoughts.  He  gave  expression  to  his  views  in  an  address  remarkable 
for  its  link  between  the  'national'  and  the  'sectional'  Calhoun  of  the  his- 
torian's creation. 

Here  are  the  phrases  so  often  on  his  lips  in  the  future:  'the  selfish  in- 
stincts of  our  nature  ...  the  rival  jealousies  of  the  States.'  These  are 
the  forces  which  he  increasingly  saw  as  threatening  the  Union — the  forces 
of  diversity,  the  clashing  interests  of  the  sections.  Now,  as  always,  liberty 
was  foremost  with  him — in  fact,  he  saw  the  Union  as  founded  to  preserve 
liberty.  When  sectional  interests  should  become  so  diverse  as  to  threaten 
the  liberty  of  a  group  of  states  to  follow  their  own  pattern  of  life,  then, 
the  Carolinian  foresaw,  the  Union  would  fall.  In  1816,  as  in  his  last  years 
of  life,  every  energy  was  dedicated  to  preventing  this  catastrophe — to  seek- 
ing methods  by  which  diverse  interests  might  be  reconciled — forces  which 
would  prevent  any  states  or  sections  with  a  numerical  majority  from 
thrusting  their  will  upon  a  minority  section. 

Calhoun's  objectives  and  fears  in  1816  were  the  objectives  of  a  lifetime; 
he  would  change  only  in  his  methods.  His  goal  was  constant:  to  preserve 
the  Union,  and  to  hold  back  all  forces  which  might  rend  the  Union  apart. 
The  great  size  of  our  country,  he  told  Congress,  'exposes  us  to  the  greatest 
of  all  calamities,  next  to  the  loss  of  liberty — disunion.  We  are  ...  rap- 


TOWARD  A  BROADENING  UNION  115 

idly, — I  was  about  to  say  fearfully,  growing.  This  is  our  pride  and  our 
danger,  our  weakness  and  our  strength. — Those  who  understand  the  hu- 
man heart  best,  know  how  powerfully  distance  tends  to  break  the  sym- 
pathies of  our  nature.  .  .  .  Let  us  ...  bind  the  republic  together  with 
roads  and  canals  ...  the  most  distant  parts  .  .  .  within  a  few  days' 
travel  of  the  center.  ...  A  citizen  of  the  west  will  read  the  news  of 
Boston  still  moist  from  the  press.  The  mail  and  the  press  are  the  nerves 
of  the  body  politic.  By  them,  the  slightest  impression  made  on  the  re- 
mote parts,  is  communicated  to  the  whole  system.  ...  If  ...  we  permit 
a  sordid  .  .  .  sectional  spirit  to  take  possession  of  this  House,  this  happy 
scene  will  vanish.  What  is  necessary  for  the  common  good  may  apparently 
be  opposed  to  the  interest  of  particular  sections.  It  must  be  submitted  to 
as  the  condition  of  our  greatness.  .  .  .  Were  we  a  small  republic  the 
selfish  instincts  of  our  nature  might  ...  be  relied  on  in  the  management 
of  public  affairs/ 45 

What  is  necessary  for  the  common  good  may  apparently  be  opposed  to 
the  interest  of  particular  sections*  It  must  be  submitted  to  as  the  condi- 
tion of  our  greatness' 

Here,  indeed,  is  the  crux  of  the  charge  that  Calhoun  was  inconsistent, 
that  the  Great  Nationalist  of  1816  right-about-faced  to  become  the  Great 
Sectionalist  of  the  eighteen-forties.  The  man  who  in  youth  voiced  these 
words  would  thirty  years  later  become  the  leader  of  the  minority  South's 
struggle  to  maintain  her  own  way  of  life  against  the  majority  of  the  na- 
tion. 

But  Calhoun  did  not  use  words  loosely.  Young  as  he  was,  he  was  a 
realist.  Already  he  had  sensed  the  dangers  to  political  freedom  in  the  wage- 
slavery  of  the  workshops.  Already  he  was  aware  of  the  danger  when  'at- 
tachment to  party  becomes  stronger  than  attachment  to  country.'  His 
thinking  deepened  and  expanded  with  the  passing  years,  but  it  is  hard  to 
believe  that  the  whole  basis  of  his  political  thought  overturned.  The  key 
to  the  dilemma  is  in  the  phrase,  'What  is  necessary  for  the  common  good/ 

For  what  Calhoun  saw  as  the  common  good,  he  had  defined  clearly, 
if  negatively,  in  his  speech,  pointing  out  'the  greatest  of  all  calamities, 
next  to  the  loss  of  liberty — disunion.'  Already  Calhoun  saw  what  Webster 
saw,  years  later,  that  to  the  common  good  liberty  and  union  were  the 
ideal.  To  Calhoun,  liberty  meant  the  right  of  an  individual,  a  state,  a 
section,  or  'an  interest,'  to  manage  its  own  affairs — to  adopt  its  own  'pe- 
culiar institutions,'  unless  these  institutions  threatened  the  common  good. 
In  all  sincerity,  Calhoun  never  deemed  the  peculiar  institutions  of  the 
South,  either  slavery  or  the  agrarian  way  of  life,  incompatible  with  the 
'common  good,'  or  endangering  either  the  liberty  or  the  union  of  the  coun- 
try as  a  whole. 

The  agitation  against  slavery,  however,  and  legislative  attempts  to 
restrict  its  extension,  he  deemed  a  violation  of  the  South's  liberty,  and 


116  JOHN  C.  CALHOUN 

knew  from  the  first  that  the  end  would  be  disunion.  Thus,  vehemently,  he 
opposed  all  such  agitation  and  legislation.  His  'moral  obtuseness'  on  the 
slave  question  may  be  condemned;  but  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  his  con- 
sistency. 

What,  then,  of  the  Calhoun  presented  to  us  by  history — the  'Nationalist' 
of  1817;  the  'Sectionalism  of  1850 — the  man  who  changed  sides?  The  in- 
terpretation simply  does  not  hold  up  under  examination.  Calhoun  could 
have  made  the  same  speech  in  1850  that  he  had  made  over  thirty  years 
earlier. 

The  possibility  of  another  war  gave  further  impetus  to  Calhoun's  im- 
mediate demand  for  national  unity.  'The  common  strength  is  brought  to 
bear  with  great  difficulty  on  the  point  that  may  be  menaced  by  an  enemy.' 
Taxes  had  been  'drained'  from  the  sections  for  use  in  war;  only  by  'in- 
ternal trade'  could  they  be  restored. 

Many  essential  improvements  were  on  'too  great  a  scale  for  States.' 
States  would  surely  yield  their  consent  for  such  widespread  benefits,  but 
even  if  they  did  not,  there  was  always  the  'general  welfare'  clause.  'I  am 
no  advocate  for  refined  arguments  on  the  Constitution,'  declared  the  con- 
fident Carolinian.  'The  instrument  was  not  intended  ...  for  the  logician 
to  exercise  his  ingenuity  on.'  The  past  had  provided  numerous  examples 
of  Congress  appropriating  money  'without  reference  to  the  enumerated 
powers.  .  .  .  Look  at  Louisiana.'  His  imagination  taking  wings,  he  con- 
jured up  a  vision  of  future  glories;  of  enterprises  which  would  one  day 
unite  Maine  to  Louisiana,  the  Great  Lakes  to  the  Hudson;  Philadelphia, 
Baltimore,  Washington,  Richmond,  and  Charleston  to  the  west;  and 
finally,  the  perfection  of  'intercourse  between  the  West  and  New  Orleans.' 

'Let  us  conquer  space.' 46 

More  prosaically  in  his  famous  'Bonus  Bill'  of  the  second  session  of  the 
Fourteenth  Congress,  Calhoun  proposed  that  the  bonus  and  dividends  of 
the  United  States  Bank  be  set  aside  for  internal  improvements.  The  meas- 
ure was  passed  by  the  House  and  sent  on  to  the  Senate.  A  few  days  later, 
Calhoun  dropped  in  at  the  'President's  House'  to  say  good-bye.  The 
session  was  nearly  over,  and  he  was  packing  for  home. 

The  pale  little  man  in  the  powdered  wig  looked  at  him  gravely.  He 
had,  he  feared,  unwelcome  news.  He  would  be  forced  to  veto  the  'Bonus 
Bill.' 

But  why?  demanded  Calhoun.  He  had  supposed  it  to  be  in  accord  with 
the  Administration's  views.  Otherwise  he  would  never  have  subjected  the 
President  'to  the  unpleasant  duty,  at  the  very  close  of  his  administration, 
of  vetoing  a  bill  passed  by  ...  his  friends.'  Hadn't  the  President  him- 
self urged  that  Congress  exercise  all  its  constitutional  powers  in  the  inter- 
ests of  internal  improvements? 

Ah,  yes,  said  Mr.  Madison,  in  substance,  but  there  was  the  trouble. 
The  Constitution  gave  no  such  latitude  as  Mr.  Calhoun  had  suggested. 


VIII  TOWARD  A  BROADENING  UNION  117 

Calhoun  protested  that  his  error  had  been  unintentional.  He  begged 
the  President  to  reconsider.  But  Madison  refused.  On  March  3,  1817, 
the  day  before  he  left  the  Presidential  office,  Madison  returned  the  bill 
with  his  veto  and  a  suggestion  that  the  Constitution  be  so  amended  as 
to  provide  the  necessary  power.  Hastily  the  vote  was  called  again,  a  com- 
plete reversal  this  time,  although  Calhoun  clung  to  his  original  position 
and  voted  in  vain  to  pass  the  bill  over  the  Presidential  veto.  It  was  an 
act  that  he  would  regret  all  his  life.47 


10 

This  was  not  the  first  time,  however,  that  CaJhoun's  zeal  had  apparently 
outrun  his  judgment.  Another  bill— equally  innocent  on  the  surface — had 
been  introduced  and  passed  in  1816,  Calhoun  supporting  it  along  with 
nearly  everyone  else.  It  provided  that  Congressional  pay  be  raised  from 
the  standard  six  dollars  a  day  to  an  annual  salary  of  fifteen  hundred 
dollars. 

But  the  people  did  not  support  it.  The  people  were  horrified.  Was  the 
American  taxpayer  to  reach  into  his  breeches'  pockets  just  to  keep  a  pack 
of  lazy  Congressmen  chattering  up  there  in  Washingtop?  If  the  job  didn't 
satisfy  the  present  officeholders,  there  were  plenty  it  would  satisfy.  A 
tidal  wave  of  outraged  public  opinion  engulfed  the  Fourteenth  Congress, 
perhaps  the  most  remarkable  assemblage  to  sit  in  the  national  councils 
until  1850.  Few  even  dared  to  run  for  re-election;  most  of  those  who  did 
were  speedily  and  permanently  retired. 

Webster  solved  the  difficulty  by  shifting  his  residence  from  New  Hamp- 
shire to  Massachusetts.  Clay  was  almost  lost,  and  only  achieved  re-elec- 
tion by  going  out  on  the  stump  and  reminding  his  enraged  audiences  that 
if  a  good  rifle  flashed  once  they  would  try  it  a  second  time  before  throw- 
ing it  away.48 

From  the  South  Carolina  foothills  rolled  up  a  thunderstorm  of  disap- 
proval. South  Carolina  now  had  two  quarrels  with  Calhoun:  he  had  his 
full  share  of  explaining  to  do  about  the  tariff,  arguing  that  he  had  sup- 
ported it  as  a  <purely  fiscal'  measure,  but  that  as  a  permanent  policy,  it 
would  never  receive  his  support;  and  now  he  must  also  defend  his  vote 
for  increased  salaries.  Suddenly  the  man  who  had  won  his  seat  almost 
by  unanimous  consent  in  the  earlier  elections  found  himself  confronted 
with  not  one  but  two  opponents,  and  a  grave-faced  group  of  the  faithful 
called  on  him  one  evening  at  Bath  in  the  summer  of  1816  and  staked 
out  his  path  of  duty.49 

He  had  made  a  terrible  mistake,  they  told  him.  His  whole  future  career 
stood  in  jeopardy.  He  must  not  dare  venture  out  on  the  stump,  lest  the 
public  wrath  be  turned  against  him.  He  must  issue  a  public  statement, 


118  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

promising  to  rescind  his  vote  at  the  next  session  of  Congress — should 
he  be  so  bold  as  to  offer  himself  for  re-election — a  risk  which  they  by 
no  means  advised.  He  must  admit  his  error,  and  promise  to  mend  his 
ways.50 

Calhoun  listened,  his  blood  boiling.  Unfortunately,  we  have  no  report 
of  what  he  actually  did  say;  but  it  is  easy  to  imagine  the  scene,  he  look- 
ing calmly  out  of  deep-set  eyes  at  the  well-wishers,  his  mouth  gone  'tight 
and  straight  as  a  piece  of  wire/  but  never  raising  his  voice  while  he  talked. 
'When  I  have  made  up  my  mind,  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  man  to  divert 
me/51  he  once  told  Duff  Green.  He  had  made  up  his  mind.  He  was 
courteous,  but  firm.  He  had  done  nothing  of  which  he  was  ashamed.  Fifteen 
hundred  dollars?  Two  thousand  would  have  been  no  inordinate  salary. 
He  would  not  back  down.  He  would  take  the  stump  and  defend  his  course; 
the  people  would  understand. 

11 

Three  months  later,  at  the  opening  of  the  'lame  duck7  session  of  1816,  an 
almost  cockily  confident  Calhoun  walked  into  the  House  Chamber.  He 
had  addressed  mass  meetings  at  Abbeville  and  Edgefield; 52  he  had  come 
back  vindicated  by  a  triumphant  re-election  to  his  seat;  and  convinced 
equally  of  the  people's  capacity  to  understand  and  his  own  powers  to 
persuade. 

The  offending  measure  was,  of  course,  immediately  brought  forth  for 
the  kill.  Amidst  the  hasty  scramble  of  retractions  and  reversals  from 
those  re-elected  under  pledge  of  reform,  Calhoun  arose  and  launched 
into  a  defense  of  his  previous  vote.  Neither  trimmer  nor  weathercock,  he 
could  not  resist  a  sneer  at  his  colleagues'  frightened  compliance  with  the 
popular  will.  This  was  'a  new  and  dangerous  doctrine,7  for  the  first 
time  broached  in  the  House.  'Are  we  bound  to  do  what  is  popular?'  He 
did  not  feel  bound  to  obey  the  instructions  of  his  constituents.  'The  con- 
stitution is  my  letter  of  instruction  ...  the  solemn  voice  of  the  people 
to  which  I  bow  ...  the  powerful  creative  voice  which  spake  our  Gov- 
ernment into  existance.  .  .  .' 

The  House,  he  declared,  was  the  'only  gift  of  the  people.7  Yet  its  'best 
talents,'  men  'of  the  most  aspiring  character,'  strove  for  positions  in  the 
'departments  or  foreign  missions,'  where  salaries  were  higher.  'Gentlemen 
say  we  ought  to  come  here  for  pure  patriotism/  declared  the  angered 
realist.  'It  sounds  well;  but  there  will  be  found  neither  patriotism  nor 
honor  sufficient  for  continual  privations.  .  .  .  Our  population  advances 
.  .  .  marriages  take  place  at  an  early  period.  Hence' — and  here  he  spoke 
from  the  heart — 'the  duty  to  make  provision  for  a  growing  family.  .  .  . 
By  inadequate  pay,  you  close  the  door  on  some  of  the  most  deserving 
citizens.  Talent,  in  this  country,  is  particularly  from  the  middling  and 


TOWARD   A   BROADENING   UNION  119 

lower  classes.  A  young  man  .  .  .  spends  his  property  ...  in  acquiring 
sufficient  information  to  pursue  a  profession/  Should  he  not  receive  ade- 
quate pay  for  devoting  his  'talents  to  the  service  of  his  country?'  Should 
'men  of  inferior  capacity  be  sent  here?'  Make  this  House  financially  com- 
parable with  its  honors,  and  'men  of  the  greatest  distinction  .  .  .  will 
seek  it.5  58 

At  such  a  time  and  under  such  circumstances,  Calhoun's  words  were 
scarcely  calculated  for  popularity.  Yet  his  very  defiance  commanded  ad- 
miration. From  the  opposite  side  of  the  House  Thomas  Grosvenor  sud- 
denly arose  and  said:  'I  have  heard  with  peculiar  satisfaction  the  able, 
manly  .  .  .  speech  of  the  gentleman  from  South  Carolina.'  ^ 

A  bomb  could  not  have  struck  the  House  with  more  effect.  Mouths  fell 
open;  pens  hovered  in  midair.  Not  a  man  had  forgotten  the  winter  morn- 
ing during  the  war  when  the  clerk  adjourned  the  House  at  twelve  o'clock, 
'the  Speaker  being  absent  .  .  .  engaged,  it  is  supposed,  in  an  honorable 
.  .  .  endeavor  to  reconcile  a  difficulty  of  a  very  serious  nature  between 
two  members.' 55 

Who  were  the  members?  Two  empty  chairs  told  the  story.  They  be- 
longed to  Thomas  Grosvenor  of  New  York  and  South  Carolina's  John  C. 
Calhoun. 

A  duel  was  in  the  offing.  The  provocation?  No  one  knew.  That  it  was 
personal  rather  than  political  Calhoun's  official  biographer  indicated  years 
later,56  but  there  had  been  bad  blood  between  the  two  for  months.  Cal- 
houn's nerves  had  long  been  tight-drawn.  Grosvenor  was  a  bitter  Ad- 
ministration critic.  The  pair  had  bickered  constantly  on  every  con- 
ceivable subject  from  the  war  program  to  their  tastes  in  literature. 

But  the  delicate  ministrations  of  Clay  arranged  'the  affair.'  The  next 
day  the  would-be  combatants  were  back  in  their  seats.  Of  the  affray, 
they  had  nothing  to  say  then  or  later.  To  each  other  they  had  nothing  to 
say  for  three  entire  years! 

Now,  sensing  the  House's  wonder,  Grosvenor  plunged  on:  'I  will  not 
be  restrained.  No  barrier  shall  exist  which  I  will  not  leap  over,  for  the 
purpose  of  offering  to  that  gentleman  my  thanks  for  the  judicious,  inde- 
pendent, and  national  course  which  he  has  pursued  ...  for  the  last  two 
years.' 57 

Coming  from  his  bitterest  enemy,  this  was  triumph  indeed.  It  climaxed 
Calhoun's  career  in  the  House.  His  words  on  the  allurements  of  Cabinet 
offices  were  prophetic.  When  he  returned  to  Washington  the  next  year,  it 
was  as  Secretary  of  War. 


rx 

Mr.  Secretary  of 


To  ANYONE  but  a  very  young  and  very  ambitious  man,  the  position  of 
Secretary  of  War  in  the  Cabinet  of  James  Monroe  would  have  held 
small  appeal.  For  the  Department  was  an  unquestioned  war  casualty, 
buried  in  a  muddled  heap  of  unsettled  accounts,  amounting  to  some  fifty 
million  dollars.1  Although  it  had  limped  through  the  late  war  with  a 
passable  degree  of  efficiency,  it  was  now  devoid  either  of  respect  or 
authority.  Indeed,  the  task  of  its  redemption  had  been  turned  down  by 
Henry  Clay,  Andrew  Jackson,  William  Lowndes,  and  Langdon  Cheves, 
none  of  whom  were  inclined  to  embark  upon  a  ship  apparently  already 
sunk.  Calhoun  had  been  in  Monroe's  mind  from  the  start,  for  he  was  the 
avowed  favorite  of  the  Army  men;  2  but  the  President  preferred  a  west- 
ern appointee;  and,  despite  his  admiration  for  Calhoun's  talents,  feared 
that  his  youth  and  inexperience  might  militate  against  his  success.^/ 

Calhoun's  friends,  even  Lowndes,  were  of  the  same  opinion.  There  was 
sincere  regret  among  them  that  his  'brilliant  powers'  were  to  be  buried 
under  executive  routine.3  These  very  doubts  only  fired  Calhoun's  desire 
to  put  himself  to  the  test.  He  accepted  the  post,  brought  his  family  to 
Washington,  and  moved  in  with  Lowndes  for  a  few  months  before  rent- 
ing a  house  on  C  Street.4  His  loneliness  was  appeased,  but  hiring  servants, 
buying  furniture,  and  entertaining  notables  soon  relieved  him  of  any 
hope  that  his  finances  would  be  improved.  In  fact,  he  was  soon  threaten- 
ing suit  against  his  Southern  debtors  in  order  to  meet  his  living  expenses. 

The  War  Department  was  housed  in  a  narrow  brick  building  on  Penn- 
sylvania Avenue,  with  six  chimneys  lined  across  the  roof  and  six  pillars 
adorning  the  portico.  Primitive  awnings,  sagging  wearily  in  wet  weather, 
shaded  the  windows;  and  in  sudden  heaves  would  dump  gallons  of  cold 
water  down  the  neck  of  Secretary  of  War  Calhoun  or  anyone  else  so 
unfortunate  as  to  be  under  them-  Inside  was  a  refreshing  lack  of  com- 
plexity. When  Secretary  of  the  Navy  Crowinshield  was  ill,  Calhoun 
merely  stepped  across  the  hall  and  took  over  his  duties.5 

The  young  Secretary  who  strode  into  his  office  on  the  morning  of  De- 
cember 6,  18 17,6  was  a  man  with  a  mission.  'We  have  much  indeed  to  do/ 7 
he  wrote  General  Jacob  Brown,  shortly  after  taking  office.  Valiantly  he 


IX  MR.   SECRETARY  OF   WAR  121 

resisted  all  temptation  to  leap  in  and  reverse  the  established  procedure 
of  years.  He  knew  his  limitations.  He  had  read  only  one  small  book  of 
military  science;  he  had  everything  to  learn  and  was  eager  to  learn.8 

'Utility  and  perfection'  were  his  aims  for  the  Department.  These,  he 
knew,  'must  be  the  work  of  time  .  .  .  with  labor  and  reflection.'  And  for 
over  a  month  he  did  nothing  but  study  and  carry  on  routine  business.9 
He  read.  He  listened.  He  humbly  questioned  the  technical  experts,  slowly 
drawing  together  the  information  which  he  later  codified  into  rules  that 
won  the  acclaim  of  Congress  and  the  country. 

He  took  the  trouble  to  make  himself  agreeable  to  high  ranking  officers, 
who  might  have  been  expected  to  resent  the  authority  of  so  inexperienced 
a  man.  And  he  captivated  them.  In  his  official  letters  it  was  almost  with 
apology  that  he  pointed  out  any  errors  they  might  have  made.  He  could 
be  tactful  when  reminding  General  Scott  that,  despite  his  honors  in  the 
'late  war,'  he  could  not  be  presented  with  United  States  brevets  wholesale; 
and  considerate  to  Major-General  Brown,  whom  he  warned  against  'pre- 
mature exertions  after  a  severe  illness,'  assuring  him  that  'much  as  I  de- 
sire your  services,  I  still  more  desire  your  recovery.' 10  He  was  sensitive 
to  the  disgrace  of  the  unruly  young  officer  who  faced  court-martial.  'Be- 
lieving that  his  difficulties  have  arisen  from  .  .  .  youth,  I  have  determined 
to  accept  his  resignation,'  was  Calhoun's  decision.11  Dismissal  would 
wreck  the  young  man's  future. 

Even  peppery  General  Andrew  Jackson,  smarting  from  a  quarrel  with 
Calhoun's  predecessor,  who  had  transmitted  orders  directly  to  subordi- 
nates over  his  head,  was  soothed  by  the  tact  and  finesse  of  the  new  Secre- 
tary. For  Calhoun,  ignoring  Jackson's  mutinous  command  that  his  men 
should  obey  no  orders  except  those  given  by  him,  merely  sent  the  de- 
partmental instructions  directly  to  Jackson,  as  should  have  been  done  from 
the  first.  So  pleased  was  the  General  that  'from  that  time  forth,  among 
the  younger  public  men,  there  was  no  one  who  stood  so  high  in  Jackson's 
regard  as  the  Secretary  of  War.' ** 

By  nature  Calhoun  was  endowed  with  great  personal  charm,  and  like 
other  Southerners,  he  had  no  scruples  in  using  it  to  fulfill  his  ends.  A 
friend  tried  in  vain  to  analyze  his  power  'to  inspire  confidence  .  .  .  the 
highest  of  qualities  in  a  public  man  ...  a  mystical  something  which  is 
felt,  but  cannot  be  described.'  Another  contended  that  it  was  'perhaps 
his  perfect  abandon,  his  sincerity,  his  confidential  manner,  his  child-like 
simplicity,  in  union  with  his  majestic  intelligence,'  that  so  won  those  'who 
came  within  his  circle.'13 

The  charm  was  not  reserved  for  high  officials.  The  clerks  who  saw  him 
every  day,  heard  his  quick  footsteps  race  up  the  stairs,  saw  his  dark  head 
bent  over  his  desk,  were,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  his  ardent  admirers. 
One  offered  to  tell  him  who  in  the  office  was  betraying  secrets  to  his  op- 
ponents, but  Calhoun  merely  said:  'My  bitterest  enemies  are  welcome  to 


122  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

know  all  that  occurs  in  my  department.  I  think  well  of  all  about  me,  and 
do  not  wish  to  change  my  opinion,  and  as  far  as  ...  information  is  con- 
cerned, I  only  regret  my  permission  was  not  asked,  as  it  would  have  been 
freely  granted.' 14 


Calhoun,  however,  had  his  full  share  of  faults  and  weaknesses.  The 
absent-mindedness,  which  brought  him  to  John  Quincy  Adams's  house 
early  one  morning  to  apologize  for  having  forgotten  a  dinner  invitation  of 
the  night  before,15  extended  into  his  work.  He  carelessly  allowed  his  en- 
gineers to  award  an  Army  contract  to  a  'pleasant  scoundrel'  named  Mix, 
omitting  the  public  advertisement  for  bids,  required  by  law.  Mix's  failure 
was  complete,  and  when  denied  a  chance  to  continue  his  misdeeds,  he 
accused  Calhoun  of  having  shared  the  profits  with  him.  A  Congressional 
investigation  fully  exonerated  the  Secretary,  'but  the  story  remained  to 
color  certain  judgments'  upon  his  conduct  in  office.16 

Furthermore,  Calhoun  had  the  quick,  hot  temper  and  touchy  pride  com- 
mon to  many  young  Southerners  of  his  era.17  Not  yet  had  he  achieved  the 
self-command  of  his  maturity;  and  feeling  his  youth,  he  must  have  been 
especially  eager  that  his  personal  authority  be  respected.  And  occasionally 
he  betrayed  an  arrogance  which  embroiled  him  in  three  conflicts,  two  of 
which  were  to  have  far-reaching  effects  on  his  life. 

.  First  of  these  was  with  stalwart  Sam  Houston.  The  hard-fighting,  hard- 
drinking  Tennessean  was  no  man  to  be  flouted  by  a  Secretary  of  War.  He 
was  recklessly  independent,  and  appeared  in  Calhoun's  office,  fresh  from 
the  wilderness,  with  a  delegation  of  Indians,  Houston  dressed  as  they  were, 
in  a  loincloth  and  blanket. 

Something  flickered  across  Calhoun's  mobile  face  as  he  saw  his  guests, 
but  even  Houston  conceded  that  his  Southern  charm  was  at  its  best;  he 
could  not  have  shown  the  visitors  more  warmth  and  courtesy  had  they 
been  ambassadors  from  the  courts  of  Europe. 

As  the  Indians  went  out,  Calhoun  signaled  to  Houston.  The  door 
closed,  and  Calhoun's  official  courtesy  dropped  like  a  mask.  His  'passion 
kindled.'  What  was  the  meaning  of  an  officer  of  the  United  States  Army 
appearing  before  the  Secretary  of  War  'dressed  like  a  savage?' 18  Houston 
took  the  outburst  in  sullen  silence,  but  he  never  forgot  it,  and  never  for- 
gave Calhoun. 

Next  came  General  Parker,  the  chief  clerk  in  the  War  Office.  Against 
the  General,  Calhoun  had  nothing  more  tangible  than  the  fact  that  he 
disliked  him;  in  fact,  he  frankly  admitted  to  General  Scott  that  he  was 
satisfied  with  the  man's  work,  but  he  became  obsessed  with  the  idea  that 
his  chief  clerk  was  talking  behind  his  back.  Monroe,  indulgent  to  his 
War  Secretary's  vagaries,  appointed  the  clerk  Paymaster  General,  and 


IX  MR.   SECRETARY   OF   WAR  123 

assured  Calhoun  that  if  Parker  ever  'treated  him  ill,"  he  would  dismiss 
him. 

But  the  Administration  was  not  large  enough  to  contain  both  Parker 
and  Calhoun.  Soon  the  Secretary,  taking  pains  to  have  a  witness  present, 
summoned  the  General  and  bitterly  demanded  to  know  if  he  had  'spoken 
in  a  spirit  of  ridicule  or  censure  upon  his  reports.'  Parker,  astonished, 
stammered  out  that  he  did  not  know  how  to  answer,  to  which  Calhoun 
retorted  that  he  knew  very  well  whether  or  not  he  had  spoken  so,  and 
closed  the  interview.  Shortly  afterward,  Monroe  discharged  the  Paymaster 
General,  who  soon  found  haven  in  Crawford's  Treasury  Department,  where 
he  was  free  to  state  that  The  management  of  the  War  Department  had 
been  inefficient  and  extravagant.' 19 

Calhoun's  pettiness  in  this  affair  is  undeniable,  but  it  is  not  character- 
istic. He  was  not  a  small  man,  and  seldom  again  in  his  long  career  did  he 
show  such  petulance  and  injustice.  Usually  men's  faults  did  not  blind  him 
to  their  virtues. 

The  problem  of  Parker,  however,  was  nothing  compared  to  that  of  an- 
other and  far  more  assertive  General.  Andrew  Jackson  was  invariably  a 
problem,  whether  viewed  close-up,  over  the  sights  of  a  dueling  pistol,  or 
at  a  distance  Indian-hunting  in  Spanish  territory.  Now  the  hour  had 
advanced  to  meet  the  man.  Down  on  the  Georgia  border,  Seminoles,  un- 
restrained by  the  so-called  Spanish  'government/  were  running  amuck 
in  a  frontier  orgy  of  burning,  scalping,  and  pillaging.  The  situation 
shouted  for  Jackson,  and  he  knew  it.  He  was  aware  that  merely  to  clear 
the  Seminoles  from  Georgia  meant  nothing,  so  long  as  they  still  camped 
out  in  East  Florida.  Yet  for  the  government  to  order  an  invasion  would 
mean  war.  Jackson  sat  down,  wrote  Monroe  that  the  government  need 
not  be  implicated  at  all.  Let  the  President  hint  to  Jackson's  friend,  John 
Rhea,  'that  the  possession  of  the  Floridas  would  be  desirable  .  .  .  and 
in  sixty  days  it  will  be  accomplished.' 20 

Monroe  was  ill  when  the  letter  arrived.  Later,  he  claimed  he  never 
saw  it.  Calhoun  read  it,  however,  and  mentioned  that  it  was  a  matter 
for  the  President's  personal  attention.21  And  'Johnny  Ray'  apparently  saw 
the  President,  and  took  some  unguarded  remark  for  the  desired  hint.  He 
passed  the  word.  Meanwhile,  Secretary  of  War  Calhoun  had  written 
Jackson:  'Adopt  the  necessary  measures  to  terminate  the  conflict.' 22 

Jackson  proceeded  to  the  border.  There  he  found  ample  evidence  that 
British  and  Spanish  agents  had  had  their  full  share  in  fomenting  the  In- 
dian uprisings.  The  Indians  he  disposed  of  in  short  order;  then  started 
in  on  the  British  and  the  Spaniards.  Within  fifty-nine  days  the  job  was 
completed.  St.  Marks  had  fallen;  Fort  Barrancas  had  fallen;  Pensacola 
had  fallen;  the  Spanish  governor  was  in  Jackson's  hands;  an  Englishman 
named  Ambrister,  in  charge  of  Indian  troops,  had  been  shot;  a  Scottish 
trader  who  had  warned  of  the  invasion  had  been  hanged.  British  prestige, 


124  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

far  from  protecting  the  Indians,  had  proved  powerless  to  save  its  own 
citizens;  but  British  and  Spanish  indignation  spoke  strongly  of  war. 

The  storm  broke  over  the  Cabinet,  with  the  blame  divided  between 
Secretary  of  State  Adams  and  Secretary  of  War  Calhoun.  The  cool 
Puritan  from  Massachusetts  did  not  feel  any  great  concern.  He  was  con- 
vinced that  the  Spanish  outrages  justified  Jackson's  action,  'but  the 
President  and  Calhoun  were  inflexible.  .  .  .  Mr.  Calhoun/  wrote  Adams, 
'bore  the  argument  against  me.'  ** 

Pride,  which  has  been  the  downfall  of  uncounted  great  men,  certainly 
wrought  its  worst  upon  Calhoun.  He  did  not  actually  demand  Jackson's 
court-martial,  but  an  'inquiry.'24  As  he  said  later,  he  did  not  question 
either  Jackson's  'motives  or  his  patriotism.5  But  sacrificing  the  man  to  the 
principle  cost  him  dear.  'Calhoun,'  remarked  the  discerning  Adams,  'seems 
to  be  personally  offended  .  .  .  that  Jackson  has  set  at  naught  the  in- 
structions of  the  Department.'25 

Actually  the  story  was  more  complex.  It  was  a  tricky  situation,  an  ex- 
plosive situation  that  faced  Monroe's  Cabinet  during  those  warm  June 
weeks  of  1818.  It  might  easily  touch  off  war,  and  none  knew  better  than 
Calhoun  how  miserably  unfit  for  war  the  country  was.  Mixed  though 
his  motives  might  be,  Calhoun  was  unaware  that  Rhea,  either  by  infer- 
ence or  silent  consent,  had  felt  himself  allowed  to  set  the  General  in 
action.  He  was  convinced  that  Jackson  had  deliberately  transcended  his 
powers  and  instructions.  And  even  Jackson's  ardently  friendly  biographer, 
Parton,  considered  it  'an  honor  for  Mr.  Calhoun  ...  to  call  for  an  in- 
quiry into  proceedings  which  came  near  involving  the  country  in  war.' 26 

The  debate  continued  for  weeks,  but  finally  Adams  won  his  point. 
Jackson  was  neither  disavowed  nor  'investigated,'  and  Calhoun,  ac- 
quiescing in  the  majority  decision  of  the  Cabinet,  dismissed  his  own  opin- 
ion from  his  mind.  Official  policy  had  been  made;  now  it  must  be  car- 
ried out.  In  September,  he  was  writing  Jackson  that  'I  concur  with  you 
in  regard  ...  to  the  importance  of  Florida  to  the  .  .  .  security  of  our 
Southern  frontier.'  But  he  warned  that,  although  war  with  Spain  alone 
would  be  nothing,  there  would  'be  an  English  war,'  almost  certainly.  'A 
certain  degree  of  caution,'  Calhoun  reminded  the  incautious  General, 
would  be  'desirable.' 2T 


Monroe's  Cabinet  had  more  problems  than  General  Jackson.  Indeed,  the 
personnel  of  the  Cabinet  itself  furnished  enough  dynamite  potentially  to 
blow  up  the  whole  Administration  if  it  were  not  kept  under  control.  And 
in  control  was  James  Monroe,  a  'dull,  sleepy,  insignificant'  looking  man, 
of  whom  his  enemies  said,  'He  hasn't  got  brains  enough  to  hold  his  hat  on.' 
His  suit  was  rusty  black,  'his  neckcloth  small,  ropy,  and  carelessly  tied, 


IX  MR.   SECRETARY  OF   WAR  125 

his  frill  matted,  his  countenance  wilted  with  age  and  care.'  **  He  was  not 
one  of  America's  most  brilliant  Presidents,  but  he  had  two  qualities  which 
more  spectacular  leaders  often  lack — discrimination  and  diplomacy.  He 
knew  good  men  when  he  saw  them,  and  he  knew  how  to  make  them  work 
for  the  general  good. 

The  Attorney-General  was  William  Wirt,  a  brilliant  Virginia  lawyer, 
socially  charming  and  addicted  to  study  as  to  a  drug.  But  the  outstanding 
figure  of  the  Cabinet  was  John  Quincy  Adams.  No  man  of  his  times  could 
equal  him,  both  in  learning  and  practical  experience.  Schools  in  Holland 
and  Paris,  a  degree  from  Harvard,  secretary  to  the  Ambassador  to  Russia 
at  fourteen,  and  later  himself  Ambassador  to  Russia  and  Germany,  United 
States  Senator  and  Peace  Commissioner — these  were  the  highlights  of  his 
career.  Yet  this  middle-aged,  prim-lipped  intellectual  was  handicapped  by 
a  personality  which  then  and  later  obscured  his  greatness.  He  had  much 
of  Calhoun's  ability,  but  none  of  his  magnetism.  He  was  cold,  tactless,  and 
uncompromising;  constitutionally  incapable  of  enjoying  himself.  'I  went 
out  this  evening  in  search  of  conversation,  an  art  of  which  I  have  never 
had  an  adequate  idea,'  he  once  confided  to  his  Diary.29 

Such  talents  as  Adams's  were  completely  overshadowed  by  the  flamboy- 
ance of  Georgia's  blond  William  H.  Crawford,  Secretary  of  the  Treasury. 
His  background  was  not  unlike  Calhoun's,  for  he,  too,  was  an  Indian 
fighter's  son  who  had  spent  his  boyhood  on  the  South  Carolina  and  Georgia 
frontiers.  He,  too,  had  attended  Dr.  Waddel's  school  and  ridden  the  back- 
country  law  circuit  before  breaking  into  politics  and  the  Georgia  Legisla- 
ture. There  was  no  stopping  him  then — Senator,  Minister  to  France,  Cab- 
inet officer,  Presidential  candidate — all  these  posts  followed  in  rapid  succes- 
sion, drawing  from  Adams  the  bitter  comment  that  Crawford's  success 
had  been  'far  beyond  either  his  services  or  his  talents.' 80 

Physically  he  was  a  giant  of  a  man,  strapping,  robust,  'roaring  with 
laughter.'  At  the  French  court  even  Bonaparte  had  been  struck  by  his 
booming  speech  and  'grand'  manner,  and  Madame  de  Stael  had  responded 
to  his  'enchanting  smile'  and  'flashing  blue  eyes.'*1  Though  Adams  and 
Calhoun  were  undeceived  by  the  bland  look  which  half-concealed  the 
hardness  of  his  features,  even  they  underestimated  his  genius.  He  could 
speak  with  apparent  frankness,  in  language  so  guarded  that  it  could  be 
interpreted  according  to  the  prejudice  of  any  listener,  and  unlike  Calhoun 
at  this  period,  he  knew  when  to  be  quiet.  Having  just  missed  the  Presiden- 
tial nomination  in  1816,  he  had  no  intention  of  permitting  the  mistake  to 
be  repeated.  In  Calhoun  and  in  the  war  hero  Jackson  he  discerned  poten- 
tialities of  which  they  themselves  were  scarcely  aware.  Skillfully  he  played 
them  off  against  each  other,  treasuring  up  Calhoun's  impulsive  outbursts 
for  future  reference,  and,  according  to  Adams,  instigating  'the  whole 
movement  in  Congress  against  .  .  .  Jackson,'  the  President,  and  Calhoun's 
administration  of  the  War  Department.  And  if  Monroe  himself  had  enter- 


126  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

tained  any  illusions  as  to  Crawford's  loyalty,  he  was  relieved  of  them  at 
the  close  of  his  term  when  the  Secretary  attacked  him  as  a  'damned,  in- 
fernal old  scoundrel/  at  which  point  the  President  hit  him  with  a  poker.32 

Calhoun  was  generally  liked  by  his  other  colleagues.  With  Monroe  him- 
self the  self-confident  young  Carolinian,  whose  sparkling  eyes  and  tousled 
hair  made  him  look  younger  still,  was  an  especial  favorite.  The  last  in  choice 
had  become  the  first  in  standing,  and  there  is  evidence  that  John  Quincy 
Adams  on  his  White  House  visits  was  not  overpleased  so  often  to  find  the 
President  and  the  Secretary  of  War  walking  up  and  down  the  lawn  to- 
gether. Regretfully,  Adams  conceded  that  Monroe  was  more  inclined  to 
rely  upon  Calhoun's  suggestions  than  on  those  of  any  of  his  other  advisers. 

Yet  Adams  himself  liked  Calhoun,  admiring  his  philosophical  turn  of 
mind,  'sound  judgment/  and  freedom  from  'sectional  prejudices/  What 
the  New  Englander  deplored  was  that  Calhoun's  strong  convictions  were 
far  more  determined  by  constitutional  than  'moral  considerations.' M 
William  Wirt  found  the  Southerner  'a  most  captivating  man  .  .  .  ardent, 
generous,  high-minded,  brave/  although  too  intense  and  impetuous.34 

But  Calhoun's  impetuosity  was  keyed  to  the  times.  South  America 
churned  with  revolution,  and  Calhoun  horrified  the  cautious  Adams  by 
suggesting  that  the  United  States  sell  arms  to  Colombia  to  shake  off  the 
European  yoke  and  extend  her  own  revolution  into  Mexico  and  Peru. 
Europe,  unsated  by  fifteen  years  of  Napoleonic  blood-letting,  was  looking 
hungrily  toward  the  straggling  republics  of  the  New  World.  Turkey  had 
sprung  upon  Greece;  France  upon  Spain.  Post-war  bitterness,  national 
recklessness,  and  individual  idealism  throbbed  in  the  very  air.  In  England, 
a  young  nobleman  who  would  give  his  life  in  the  cause  of  freedom  *  had 
written: 

'The  mountains  look  on  Marathon, 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea. 
And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 
I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free? 

Calhoun  dreamed  the  same  dream.  For  the  United  States  it  was  a  time  of 
decision.  Could  a  free  republic  see  her  sister  republics  fall  victims  to  tyr- 
anny and  subjugation?  Could  peace  be  preserved  in  a  world  at  war? 
Could  Spain  be  stopped  by  humble  consent  to  her  aggressions?  Could 
American  freedom  and  European  oppression  live  side  by  side?  These  were 
the  questions  Calhoun  asked,  and  it  was  he  alone  in  the  Cabinet  who  called 
for  American  naval  forces  to  aid  Greece,  and  for  America  to  stand  up  and 
face  the  responsibilities  of  freedom. 

In  session  after  session  of  the  Cabinet,  with  'powerful  eloquence/  Cal- 
houn 'descanted  upon  his  great  enthusiasm  for  the  cause  of  the  Greeks;  he 

*  George  Gordon  Lord  Byron. 


XX  MR.   SECRETARY   OF  WAR  127 

was  for  taking  no  heed  of  Turkey  whatsoever.' M  Not  only  was  he  indif- 
ferent to  Turkey,  but  to  England  and  Spain  and  indeed  to  all  Europe. 

He  warned  of  European  designs  on  South  America.  Vigorously,  in  the 
name  of  American  public  opinion,  he  denounced  'any  yielding  to  foreign 
power/  any  appeasement  of  colony-hungry  Spain.  'We  should  not  get  any 
credit  for  it,  if  we  did.' 8*  For  those  who  would  disrupt  'all  our  means  of 
preparation/  in  the  very  face  of  'possible  attacks  of  the  Armed  Alliance/ 
his  scorn  was  bitter.  America  must  arm  and  remain  armed.  'No  political 
combination  that  ever  existed/  he  warned,  'required  to  be  so  vigilantly 
watched  as  the  Holy  Alliance.  ...  It  exceeds  all  other  combinations 
against  human  happiness  and  freedom,  which  were .  ever  formed.  .  .  . 
They  are  on  one  side  and  we  the  other  of  political  systems  wholly  irrecon- 
cilable. The  two  cannot  exist  together.  One  or  the  other  must  gain  the 
ascendency.' 87 

Countering  his  views  were  Crawford,  who  held  that  it  is  not  'good  policy 
to  set  ...  other  nations  at  defiance/  and  Adams.  Between  isolationism 
and  'mingling  in  every  European  war/  Adams  declared^  'I  [see]  no  other 
prospect  for  this  nation  than  .  .  .  washing  blood-stained  hands  in  blood.' w 

Eventually  the  New  Englander  and  the  Carolinian  composed  their  dif- 
ferences. Out  of  these  tense  Cabinet  sessions  came  a  declaration  of  foreign 
policy,  a  hands-off  warning  to  Europe,  a  guarantee  of  protection  to  South 
America,  a  promise  that  the  European  political  system  should  never  be 
extended  on  American  soil.  It  became  known  as  the  Monroe  Doctrine;  but 
if  written  by  Monroe  and  Adams,  its  frank  avowal  of  American  responsi- 
bilities and  American  leadership  is  in  no  small  part  due  to  the  influence  of 
Calhoun. 


Foreign  policy  dominated  Calhoun's  individual  as  well  as  his  Cabinet 
work.  To  him  the  War  Office  was  no  mere  agency  for  the  transaction  of 
routine  business.  His  was  the  personal  responsibility  of  eradicating  those 
weaknesses  which,  but  for  the  grace  of  God,  Napoleon  and  Andrew  Jack- 
son might  have  handed  the  country  back  to  England.  No  man  ever  learned 
his  lessons  more  completely  than  John  C.  Calhoun,  and  the  lesson  of  1812 
had  been  burned  into  his  mind.  He  knew  his  own  responsibility  for  leading 
the  country  into  battle;  and  her  defeats  rankled  within  him.  Now,  con- 
fronting a  people  sick  of  war,  he  grimly  warned  that  'However  removed 
our  situation  from  the  great  powers  of  the  world,  and  however  pacific 
our  policy  ...  we  are  liable  to  be  involved  in  war';  adding  that  perpetual 
peace  was  a  dream  which  'no  nation  has  had  the  good  fortune  to  enjoy.' 39 
Peacetime,  not  war,  was  the  opportunity  to  build  up  the  Army.  Peace 
was  the  time  to  guard  against  the  danger  of  overwhelming  losses.  Calhoun 
neatly  punctured  the  trial  balloons  of  'experts/  who  were  shouting  the  old 


128  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

European  bugaboo  of  large  standing  armies*  To  small  countries  such  armies 
would  undoubtedly  be  a  menace,  but  the  very  immensity  of  the  United 
States  precluded  such  dangers  while  necessitating  adequate  protection  for 
the  oversized  frontier  line.  The  military  establishment  of  1802,  Calhoun 
reminded  his  war-  and  tax-weary  countrymen,  was  larger  than  the  one 
now  proposed  for  a  country  doubled  in  size! 40 

All  this  sounded  very  well  to  the  officers  and  men  in  the  threatened 
Army  and  to  the  generation  just  too  young  for  the  war,  and  to  the  realists, 
like  Calhoun  himself,  who  were  ashamed  of  the  muddle  that  had  been 
made.  Calhoun's  bold  words  did  him  no  harm,  for  not  yet  did  America 
expect  her  statesmen  to  say  nothing  and  to  please  everyone.  Calhoun's 
unabashed  independence  brought  him  forward  as  no  mere  compliance  with 
public  opinion  could  have  done. 

Congress  was  another  matter.  Committed  to  reducing  taxes  and  main- 
taining itself  in  power,  it  had  not  the  least  interest  in  Army  expansion. 
Reduction  and  economy  were  the  watchwords,  and  reduction  and  economy 
were  ordered  from  the  Secretary  of  War. 

Calhoun  was  no  spendthrift.  He  had  sharply  questioned  the  undue  cost 
of  warships  at  two  thousand  dollars  apiece.  He  had  been  stern  in  his 
comments  to  Lieutenant-Colonel  Charles  Gratiot  that  'the  expenses  of  ... 
buildings  of  a  temporary  character  are  much  too  great.  .  .  ,  Nothing  more 
than  comfort' 41  was  required. 

The  confusion  and  'crushing  responsibilities'  that  had  confronted  him 
from  the  moment  he  took  office,  Calhoun  had  faced  with  a  practicality 
which  amazed  his  friends,  who  thought  his  mind  too  abstract  to  cope  with 
executive  detail.  'Every  article  of  public  property  .  .  .  ought  to  be  in 
charge  of  some  person  responsible,'  he  had  directed.  Thus,  'a  very  con- 
siderable reduction  of  expenses'  could  be  made.  He  suggested  that  even 
in  peacetime  each  military  department  have  a  chief  accountable  to  the 
government  at  all  times.42 

To  establish  this  system  had  necessitated  a  complete  reorganization  of 
the  War  Department.  Far  from  'burying'  his  talents,  Calhoun  revealed 
executive  abilities  which  an  admiring  French  army  officer  compared  to 
Napoleon's,  and  which  placed  the  Department  on  so  firm  a  foundation  that, 
ironically  enough,  it  faced  the  tests  of  both  the  Mexican  and  Civil  Wars.43 
In  a  single  year  the  Department  paid  out  $4,571,961.64,  which  passed 
through  the  hands  of  291  disbursing  agents,  with  every  penny  accounted 
for.  And  before  leaving  office,  Calhoun  could  boast  that,  although  de- 
partmental expenses  were  three  times  greater  than  in  1800,  the  unsettled 
accounts  had  been  brought  down  to  $4,000,000,  and  that  a  sum  of 
$957,356.46  had  been  saved  the  government  through  his  system  of  re- 
organization.44 

Efficiency  and  honesty  were  not  enough  for  Congress,  however.  The 
clamor  for  tax  reduction  was  making  an  unholy  din;  but  Calhoun  drew 


IX  MR.   SECRETARY  OF   WAR  129 

a  line.  Economy  was  one  thing.  False  economy  was  another.  The  'miser's 
policy,'  he  insisted,  'is  the  worst  extravagance/  and  'the  best  is  the*  cheapest, 
though  the  first  outlay  is  larger.'  In  cutting  Army  pay  checks  to  a  point 
where  men  of  the  greatest  talent  either  resigned  or  refused  to  enter  the 
service,  he  could  see  no  economy  whatever.  'Men  will  not  serve  for  honor 
alone/  he  warned;  nor  would  even  the  rank  and  file  last  with  reduced  pay 
and  rising  prices. 

Proposals  of  economy  in  the  Army's  food  supply  drew  his  full  wrath, 
but  Congress  was  implacable.  Ordered  to  reduce  food  costs,  Calhoun  went 
into  conference  with  the  Surgeon-General  and  emerged  with  a  plan  which 
not  only  halved  expenses,  but  actually  improved  the  diet  of  the  soldiers. 
The  standard  Army  ration  was  one  and  a  quarter  pounds  of  beef,  or  three- 
quarters  of  a  pound  of  pork,  one  gill  of  rum,  small  amounts  of  brandy  and 
whiskey,  and  eighteen  ounces  of  bread  a  day.  With  no  knowledge  of 
vitamins,  balanced  diets,  or  the  dangers  of  alcoholism,  except  what  his 
own  common-sense  told  him,  Calhoun  proposed  that  peas  and  beans 
occasionally  be  substituted  for  the  meat;  that  to  save  transportation  costs, 
vegetables  and  livestock  be  raised  at  each  Army  post,  and  that  in  the  South 
men  have  their  bacon  and  cornbread.  Molasses,  Calhoun  concluded, 
should  replace  the  'spirit  ration'  entirely,  and  hard  liquor  be  reserved  for 
use  before  battle  'when  great  efforts  were  necessary.' 45 

It  was  ironic  that  Calhoun's  talents  should  have  been  revealed  in 
measures  of  which  he  himself  disapproved.  Army  reduction,  he  reminded 
Congress,  would  endanger  American  safety,  both  domestic  and  foreign.  It 
would  deprive  the  Department  of  essential  'concentration  of  our  depots.' 
So  stringently  had  he  cut  his  own  departmental  expenses  that  his  entire 
budget  for  the  year  1820  was  $4,500,000,  'a  sum  less  than  the  expenditure 
for  the  Army  alone  in  the  year  1817.'  Such  a  striking  proof  'of  our  efficient 
organization/  Calhoun  believed,  would  'go  far  to  save  the  Army.'  ** 

But  the  Army  was  not  to  be  saved.  Ordered  to  reduce  its  numbers,  Cal- 
houn drew  up  a  plan  'remarkable'  in  its  recognition  of  the  errors  of  1812, 
but  so  far  in  advance  of  its  times  that  Congress,  with  characteristic  fear 
of  new  ideas,  shelved  it  for  the  duration  of  Calhoun's  term  of  office. 

'At  the  commencement  of  hostilities/  he  wrote,  'there  should  be  nothing 
to  create.'  War  should  be  waged  on  'the  basis  of  the  peace  establishment, 
instead  of  creating  a  new  army  to  be  added  to  the  old,  as  at  ...  the  late 
war.'  Specifically,  he  suggested  the  plan,  later  adopted,  of  reducing  the 
number  of  privates  in  companies  rather  than  the  number  of  companies,  a 
program  successfully  used  in  Germany.  Thus,  in  times  of  crisis  companies 
in  charge  of  trained  officers  could  be  speedily  recruited  up  to  combat 
strength.  Although  the  Army  was  to  be  reduced  to  6,300  men,  in  an  emer- 
gency it  could  be  increased  to  11,000  without  adding  an  officer  or  a  com- 
pany; and,  by  the  addition  of  only  288  officers,  to  19,000  men.  He  knew 
his  view  was  unpopular,  but  he  would  do  his  'duty  faithfully  without  re- 


130  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

gard  to  unjust  clamour.'  He  had  done  his  part  in  reducing  expenses.  His 
whole  estimated  departmental  budget  for  the  next  year,  including  West 
Point,  would  be  only  $2,570,000.47 


With  West  Point,  Calhoun  had  better  luck,  plus  the  co-operation  of  an 
austere,  clear-featured  disciplinarian,  still  in  his  thirties — Sylvanus  Thayer, 
father  of  the  spindling  little  school  on  the  Hudson.  Since  that  day  in  1802 
when  ten  cadets  had  sat  down  to  their  first  classes,  French  and  drawing, 
philosophy  and  mathematics  had  been  added  to  the  curriculum;  but  to 
both  Thayer  and  Calhoun  the  school  seemed  too  small.  They  had  no  fear 
of  too  many  graduates  for  the  Army  to  absorb;  for  in  case  of  war  trained 
civilians  would  be  far  more  able  to  grasp  Army  details  than  those  with- 
out military  education.48 

Yet,  eager  as  Calhoun  was  for  newer  and  richer  blood  in  the  officers' 
corps,  it  was  quality,  not  quantity,  he  wanted.  Every  prospective  cadet 
was  given  a  thorough  'screening'  in  the  form  of  a  personal  interview  with 
the  Secretary  of  War.  So  high  were  Calhoun's  standards  that  in  a  single 
year,  out  of  thirty-five  eager  Virginians,  he  appointed  only  nine,  including 
Robert  Edward  Lee,  the  handsome  son  of  the  Revolutionary  officer,  'Light- 
Horse  Harry'  Lee.  Joseph  E.  Johnston  was  another  Virginia  appointee, 
and  a  slender  youth  from  Mississippi  with  square  cleft  chin  and  set  lips, 
strangely  like  Calhoun's  own,  whose  name  was  Jefferson  Davis. 

Early  in  1819,  a  student's  strike  broke  out  at  West  Point.  Calhoun  re- 
viewed the  findings  of  the  Court  of  Inquiry,  which  upheld  Thayer's  dis- 
missal of  a  captain  with  'insufficient  command  of  his  temper,'  and  expelled 
the  rebelling  student  committee  as  'mutinous.'  But  tolerance  for  the  mis- 
takes of  youth  was  strong  in  Calhoun,  and  deeming  'youth  and  inex- 
perience' the  cause  of  the  uproar,  he  ordered  Thayer  to  'restore'  the 
dismissed  cadets.40 

To  Calhoun  West  Point  seemed  the  future's  chance  to  eradicate  the 
errors  of  the  past.  He  personally  read  and  suggested  books  for  the  class- 
rooms. He  urged  that  talent  be  drawn  to  the  institution  by  paying  pro- 
fessors according  to  qualifications,  rather  than  by  their  military  rank. 
He  called  for  new  West  Points  in  the  South  and  West,  and  again  and  again 
demanded  that  the  government  establish  an  artillery  school  of  application 
and  practice,  a  dream  which,  before  leaving  office,  he  had  the  satisfaction 
of  seeing  realized. 


The  amount  of  work  that  Calhoun  performed  as  Secretary  of  War  is 
prodigious.  His  correspondence  is  laden  with  references  to  the  almost  con- 


IX  MR.   SECRETARY  OF   WAR  131 

tinual  'severe  pressure' 50  under  which  he  labored;  and  even  more  convinc- 
ing are  the  gigantic  letter-books  of  this  period,  in  the  National  Archives, 
with  their  thousands  of  closely  written  pages.  Fortunately,  Calhoun  had 
the  gift  of  quick  thinking  and  quick  decisions.  But  all  his  energies  were 
challenged  by  the  diversity  of  his  tasks,  which  ranged  from  the  disposal 
of  stands  of  'publick  arms,'  red  with  the  rust  of  1812,  to  the  consideration 
of  proper  'presents  to  Indians3  and  'accomodations  for  travelers  using  the 
road  through  the  Choctaw  nation.3 

Posts  on  the  Missouri.  Posts  on  the  Yellowstone.  Commissioners  for  the 
Choctaws.  Regulations  for  military  storekeepers.  Courts  of  Inquiry.  Courts- 
martial.  Supplies  for  Green  Bay,  for  Sandusky,  for  Prairie  du  Chien! 

He  was  unyielding  with  the  fraudulent  claims  of  federal  contractors,  for 
to  Calhoun,  born  in  the  shadow  of  the  Revolutionary  horrors,  no  human 
specimen  was  lower  than  the  man  who  defrauded  veterans  of  the  small 
recompense  their  country  could  give  them.  Upon  Pension  Agent  Stephen 
Cantrell,  who  had  paid  the  veterans  of  Tennessee  in  depreciated  notes 
from  the  Bank  of  Nashville,  in  which  he  was  the  principal  stockholder, 
Calhoun  scarcely  troubled  to  waste  his  contempt.51 

Indian  problems  added  to  Calhoun's  cares.  He  pondered  them  earnestly, 
then  worked  out  a  program  of  moderation  and  firmness,  of  'justice'  and 
'humanity,3  which  sixty-six  years  later,  Carl  Schurz  would  disinter  and 
'take  the  credit'  for  originating  it.52 

He  moved  swiftly  into  action,  halting  liquor  sales,  stipulating  that  fur- 
trading  licenses  be  granted  only  to  men  'of  good  moral  character'  to 
whom  'a  single  profitable  speculation'  would  not  be  of  more  importance 
than  'the  continuance  of  peace.'  Yet  he  did  not  view  the  'decaying  and 
degenerating'  Indian  tribes  as  objects  of  terror,  but  'of  commiseration.' 
Their  wants  multiplied  by  crude  contact  with  civilization,  and,  their  own 
'rude  arts'  lost,  he  was  convinced  that  they  must  be  absorbed  into  the 
'mighty  torrent  of  our  civilization  .  .  .  our  laws  and  manners.'  Specifi- 
cally, he  called  for  a  division  of  land  among  families,  with  compulsory 
education  in  farming  skills  for  the  men  and  in  cooking,  sewing,  and  home- 
making  for  the  girls.53 

Yet,  with  increased  understanding  of  the  Indians,  not  as  theories  but  as 
suffering  human  beings  with  their  own  pride  and  their  own  heritage,  his 
program  broadened.  Ultimately  he  adopted  the  plan,  first  dreamed  by 
Jefferson,  of  uniting  all  Indian  tribes  into  one  great  nation  beyond  the 
Mississippi,  far  from  the  reach  of  the  white  man.  To  Henry  Leavenworth 
he  declared  that  'force  .  .  .  should  it  be  necessary,  must  be  used  to  pre- 
vent the  whites  from  crossing  the  boundary  line.'  M 

Paradoxically,  this  white  Southern  owner  of  black  men,  this  son  of  an 
old-style  Indian  fighter,  actually  liked  Indians.  None  of  the  usual  Southern 
confusion  on  racial  questions  appeared  to  trouble  him.  Personally  he 
treated  Indians  as  'gentlemen/  with  a  courtesy  and  consideration  that 


132  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

came  as  much  from  understanding  as  from  knowledge.  Yet  all  Washington 
must  have  felt  that  he  was  carrying  diplomatic  protocol  a  little  far  on  the 
July  day  in  1824  when  he  appeared  at  a  formal  party  with  several  chiefs, 
three  squaws,  and  a  six-year-old  girl,  all  gaily  adorned  in  stripes  of 
'festive'  red  and  yellow  paint,  or,  as  John  Quincy  Adams  noted,  'all  but 
naked/55 


The  War  Department  interlude  was  symbolic  of  Calhoun's  entire  career. 
His  lack  of  skill  in  practical  politics  gained  him  at  once  personal  glory 
and  the  defeat  of  his  greatest  endeavors.  Night  after  night  bending  over 
maps  with  William  Lowndes,56  his  pioneering  blood  throbbed  to  the  chal- 
lenge of  a  new  and  broadening  Union,  in  which,  to  him,  the  hopes  of 
mankind  were  centered.  In  a  'masterly  state  paper  .  .  .  filled  with  the 
magnitude*  of  his  subject,  he  defined  America  as  the  'last  and  only  refuge 
of  freedom.' 67  He  called  for  highways  and  canals  to  link  the  nation  to- 
gether. He  sent  expeditions  to  explore  the  Mississippi  and  the  Missouri 
Basins.  His  vision  captured  the  popular  imagination,  but  his  plan  for 
exploration  of  the  Yellowstone  was  wrecked  in  Congress  by  a  coalition  of 
Crawford,  Clinton,  and  Clay  supporters. 

To  Calhoun  the  magnitude  of  his  tasks  was  only  a  spur  to  his  energies. 
He  drove  himself  mercilessly,  working  right  through  the  stagnant  heat 
of  a  Washington  summer,  often  fourteen  or  fifteen  hours  a  day.58  His 
physique  could  not  meet  such  demands;  he  was  almost  continually  over- 
wrought and  overtired,  and  a  hasty  six  weeks'  visit  to  South  Carolina  in 
the  fall  of  1819,  where  the  ruins  of  two  successive  crop  failures  were  wait- 
ing, did  little  to  restore  him. 

In  Rockingham  County,  North  Carolina,  on  his  return  in  November, 
'burning  with  fever/  he  stumbled  into  a  wayside  farmhouse,  and  for  ten 
days  hung  between  life  and  death.  He  had  contracted  a  dangerous  case 
of  typhus  or  typhoid,  and  run-down  as  he  was,  it  'raged  with  extraordinary 
violence.' 

Floride  nursed  him,  but  it  was  not  until  the  twenty-seventh  that  the 
press  declared  that,  although,  'very  weak  and  low,'  he  would  probably  re- 
cover. Washington  breathed  more  easily.  On  November  30,  the  National 
Intelligencer  reported  that  he  might  be  able  to  travel  within  ten  or  fifteen 
days.  Three  days  later,  'very  much  reduced,'  he  arrived  in  the  capital.50 

He  was  back  at  his  desk  in  two  weeks,  but  his  health  continued  'low,'  and- 
it  was  months  before  he  really  regained  his  strength.80  Floride  took  him  in 
hand,  saw  that  he  ate  properly  and  on  time,  and  had  no  hesitation  in  calling 
him  away  from  conferences  with  Mr.  John  Quincy  Adams,  if  that  gentle- 
man's unannounced  visits  interfered  with  her  meal  schedule.61  He  cut  his 
working  hours  down  to  six  or  seven  a  day,  but  by  midsummer  was  again 


IX  MR.   SECRETARY  OF  WAR  133 

ill  and  exhausted.  Monroe,  who  watched  his  overenergetic  Secretary  with 
almost  fatherly  concern,  offered  him  the  use  of  his  own  summer  home,  but 
Calhoun  refused.  Travel,  he  thought,  would  be  of  'more  service'  to  him 
than  anything  else,  so  the  President  let  him  combine  business  with  pleasure 
in  excursions  to  military  posts  at  Niagara  Falls,  Sackett's  Harbor,  Pitts- 
burgh, and  even  Montreal. 

Once  returned,  Calhoun  was,  of  course,  unable  to  resist  doing  all  the 
work  that  had  accumulated  during  his  absence,  and  by  the  winter  of 
1820-21  was  again  working  under  'uncommonly  severe  pressure,3  without 
'one  day's  relaxation  in  months.' 82  The  tremendous  physical  strain  upon 
him  was,  of  course,  no  secret  to  his  intimates;  and  that  he  paid  for  his 
undue  expenditures  of  energy  is  indicated  in  a  solicitous  letter  from  Mon- 
roe, addressed  to  the  Mineral  Springs  in  Bedford,  Pennsylvania,  where 
Calhoun  and  his  family  took  several  weeks'  rest  during  the  fall  of  1821. 
'I  am  happy  to  hear  that  you  have  in  a  great  measure  recovered  your 
health/  wrote  the  President.  'The  use  of  the  Bladensburg  water,  with  the 
exercise  you  take  in  going  there,  will  soon  remove  all  disease.'  ^  But  Cal- 
houn's  private  correspondence  shows  that  his  general  health  remained 
indifferent  throughout  his  entire  period  as  Secretary  of  War. 


8 

If  Calhoun's  days  in  the  War  Department  were  more  strenuous  than  any 
he  had  ever  known,  Floride  was  in  her  element.  She  was  only  twenty-five, 
a  tiny  'wren-like'  girl,  still  gay,  still  pretty.  Seven  years  of  exile  on  a 
country  plantation  and  the  birth  of  three  children  had  left  her  French 
vivacity  unchanged.  Her  dark  eyes  glowing  under  embroidered  turbans,  she 
was  hostess  at  'select  dinners  and  balls,'  when  five  rooms  might  be  thrown 
open  for  dancing.  Sometimes  forty  people,  including  the  entire  Cabinet, 
Army  and  Navy  officers,  and  Congressmen,  would  grace  the  Calhoun's 
dinner  table.64 

Or  the  young  couple  might  attend  a  ball,  their  perilous  way  through  the 
Washington  streets  lit  by  two  rows  of  bonfires,  their  carriage  wheels  rolling 
like  thunder  in  the  night.65  Floride  might  wear  a  dancing  frock,  the 
flounced  hem  gay  with  artificial  roses.  She  would  lead  a  cotillion  with  her 
tall  husband,  or,  close  in  his  arms,  glide  away  in  the  new  and  shocking 
steps  of  the  waltz.66  And  always  the  faces  were  the  same:  the  sprinkling  of 
women  on  the  dance  floor,  or  seated  on  the  horsehair  sofas,  making  up  in 
finery  what  they  lacked  in  numbers.  Floride  had  sometimes  attended 
dinner  parties  of  ten  or  twelve  where  she  was  the  only  woman  present. 
Nor  were  there  enough  men  for  society  to  have  its  cliques;  men  who  tore 
each  other's  politics  apart  on  the  floor  of  Congress  in  the  daytime  were 
card  partners  at  night.  At  the  height  of  their  political  squabbles,  Crawford, 


134  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

Adams,  and  Calhoun  were  seen  at  evening  parties,  talking  and  joking  to- 
gether.67 

Although  Calhoun  'enjoyed  the  pleasant  social  life,'  mingling  'more  than 
he  ever  did  afterwards/  he  was  inherently  solitary,  and  far  happier  on 
quiet  evenings  with  his  children.  'Our  little  Irishman  Patrick  grows  finely/ 
he  wrote.  'Anna  Maria  is  a  great  talker,  and  a  source  of  much  amusement 
to  me.'  ^  He  liked  to  read,  and  not  only  books  of  politics  or  history.  Like 
Jefferson's,  his  Celtic  blood  succumbed  to  the  fascination  of  the  strange, 
wild  'Ossianic'  poems,  suffused  in  all  the  melancholy  mists  of  pagan  Ire- 
land, and  he  read  of 

'Moina  with  the  dark-blue  eyes  .  .  . 

Her  breasts  were  like  foam  on  the  wave, 

And  her  eyes  were  like  stars  of  light  .  .  . 

Thou  lookest  forward  in  thy  beauty  from  the  clouds, 

And  laughest  at  the  storm  .  .  . 

Exult  then,  0  sun,  in  the  strength  of  thy  youth! 

Age  is  dark  and  unlovely; 

It  is  like  the  glimmering  light  of  the  moon, 

When  it  shines  through  broken  clouds, 

And  the  mist  is  on  the  hills. 

The  blast  of  the  North  is  on  the  plain; 

The  traveler  shrinks  in  the  midst  of  his  journey! 

He  liked  vigorous,  intellectual  discussions  with  one  or  two  close  friends, 
and  for  him  to  attend  small-talk  parties  was  a  real  concession. 

The  Calhouns  were  struggling  to  adapt  themselves  to  each  other.  Al- 
ready months  and  years  of  living  apart  had  widened  the  gulf  between  their 
personalities.  Hospitable  Florida  would  receive  visitors  'with  the  affection 
...  of  the  nearest  relative  or  friend/  load  them  with  jellies  and  preserves, 
and  put  their  children  to  sleep  on  her  own  bed ;  but  she  knew  that  a  guest 
like  Mrs.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith  came  primarily  to  discuss  'men,  mea- 
sures, and  facts'  with  her  brilliant  husband,  and  would  gracefully  with- 
draw, leaving  the  pair  undisturbed.  'Mr.  Calhoun  is  a  profound  statesman 
and  elegant  scholar/  Mrs.  Smith  wrote,  'but  his  manners  in  ...  private 
are  endearing  as  well  as  captivating.  .  .  .  While  we  conversed,  Mrs.  Cal- 
houn and  Julia  played  on  the  piano  and  at  chess.'  'You  could  not  fail 
to  love  and  appreciate  ...  her  charming  qualities:  a  devoted  mother, 
tender  wife,  industrious,  cheerful,  intelligent,  with  the  most  perfectly 
equable  temper'  was  another  first-hand  comment.09 

Proof  that  the  Calhouns  were  'truly  beloved'  came  during  the  illness  of 
their  five-months-old  baby,  Elizabeth.  Washington  society  belles  thronged 
the  house,  offering  assistance;  Mrs.  Smith  sat  up  two  nights  with  the 
child;  the  President's  daughter  acted  as  nurse,  and  Monroe  himself  called 
every  day.  From  the  first,  there  was  little  hope,  and  the  baby's  death 


IX  MR.   SECRETARY   OF   WAR  135 

after  ten  days  of  suffering  came  almost  as  a  relief  to  the  exhausted  parents. 
Calhoun,  tight-lipped  and.  silent,  sought  escape  in  his  work  the  next  day, 
but  it  was  noted  that  not  he,  but  the  faithful  William  Lowndes,  made  the 
arrangements  for  the  baby's  funeral.70  'Midst  all  of  the  anxiety  which  must 
occasionally  be  felt/  Calhoun  later  wrote  of  his  children,  'how  much  more 
happy  you  are  with  them,  and  how  disconsolate  you  would  be  without 
them.  ...  I  feel  it  quite  a  misfortune  that  we  cannot  bring  them  up  in 
Carolina  among  their  relatives/ 71 

For  Calhoun  these  were  happy  years.  He  had  proved  his  strength  beyond 
even  his  own  satisfaction.  He  had  given  the  War  Department  an  im- 
portance it  had  not  before  possessed,  and  not  since  the  days  of  Alexander 
Hamilton  had  a  Cabinet  officer  of  his  youth  gained  such  nation-wide 
admiration.  He  had  his  family,  a  few  close  friends,  an  army  of  devoted 
followers,  particularly  among  intellectuals  and  young  men,  who  responded 
to  his  sweeping  vision  of  a  'mighty  republic  .  .  .  once  limited  by  the 
Alleghany,'  now  'ready  to  push  ...  to  the  western  confines  of  the  con- 
tinent.' 72  But  'long  rambles'  with  John  Quincy  Adams,  dodging  the  mud- 
holes  along  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  were  no  substitute  for  horseback  rides 
across  a  Carolina  plantation.  'My  passion  for  farming  is  not  abated,'  he 
'  wrote.  'I  consider  my  absence  from  my  farm  among  my  greatest  sacri- 
fices.' 73  He  was  eager  to  return  South,  but  stronger  ties  were  binding  him 
to  Washington.  He  was  restless,  eager,  unsatisfied.  Ambition  was  stirring 
within  him. 


X 

The  Master  of  Dumbarton  Oaks 


To  FUTURE  GENERATIONS  the  brick  house  on  Georgetown  Heights  would 
be  known  as  Dumbarton  Oaks.  But  to  Calhoun,  who  moved  there  in  1822, 
the  square  Federalist  mansion  on  R  Street  was  'Oakly,'  so  named  for 
the  grove  of  trees  that  threw  a  cooling  shade  over  the  fading  pink  walls 
in  even  the  hottest  weather. 

Oakly  bore  little  resemblance  to  the  Dumbarton  Oaks  which  became 
world  famous  in  1944,  although  in  Calhoun's  words  it  was  'a  splendid 
establishment'  even  then.  Charleston-born  Floride  could  have  found  no 
fault  with  this  stately  mansion,  its  central  hallway  'wide  enough  for  a 
hay  wagon  to  pass,'  its  great  parlors,  and  the  bright,  sunny  dining  room, 
overlooking  the  gardens  and  greenhouse.1 

For  a  large  family  the  place  was  ideal.  For  Calhoun  it  would  have  been 
enough  merely  to  see  his  children's  health  and  spirits  improving  with  'the 
fresh  air  and  abundant  exercise.'  But  to  him,  personally,  the  place  meant 
more  than  he  could  say.  He  had  hungered  for  the  Southern  countryside 
with  an  almost  physical  pain;  a  single  day  on  a  farm  in  Pennsylvania, 
with  its  rich  soil  and  fields  of  oats,  wheat,  and  corn,  had  inspired  him  to 
write  page  after  blotted  page  of  ecstatic  comment  to  his  cousin,  John 
Ewing.2 

Oakly  was  no  farm.  But  in  thirty  acres  of  garden  and  woodland,  a  man 
could  stretch  his  legs.  Borne  down  under  as  heavy  a  burden  of  work  as 
he  would  ever  know,  Calhoun  felt  moments  of  peace  in  those  shell-pink 
dawns,  with  the  foliage  shining  emerald  green.  Once  behind  the  walls  of 
Oakly,  Washington,  with  its  turmoils,  was  shut  away.  To  the  rear  was 
the  rise  and  fall  of  the  hills,  to  the  east  the  old-fashioned  flower  gardens, 
and  beyond  them  fruit  trees,  crouched  low  against  the  sloping  earth.  A 
'Lover's  Lane'  wound  along  the  stone  wall  at  the  orchard's  border,  and 
here  Calhoun  and  Floride  could  walk  in  the  twilights.  In  the  fall  the 
pungent  scent  of  grapes  lingered  on  the  air,  and  Calhoun  could  write  his 
friend,  J.  G.  Swift:  'My  wine  has  started,  finally.'  3 

Calhoun  did  not  own  the  estate.  His  mother-in-law  had  bought  it  for 
ten  thousand  dollars  in  the  fall  of  1822,  against  Calhoun's  misgivings. 
'The  price  is  low,  but  as  she  has  no  need  of  it,  I  fear  she  will  in  the  long 


X  THE  MASTER   OF   DUMBARTON   OAKS 


137 


run  find  it  dear,'  *  prophesied  Calhoun,  who  as  tenant  would  pay  dearly 
for  every  moment  of  enjoyment  that  his  new  home  gave  him. 

It  was  pleasant  to  live  in  Georgetown  those  days,  pleasant  and  expensive. 
Old  brick  mansions,  set  deep  in  gardens  filled  with  'majestic  trees  and 
flowering  plants/  dotted  the  hills,  superbly  indifferent  to  the  newly  chris- 
tened 'streets  without  houses7  that  twisted  below  them.  During  the  winter 
months  the  houses  were  filled  with  planters  from  eastern  Maryland,  who 
with  balls,  parties,  and  dinners  'lived  luxuriously  in  fine  old  English 
style.'  Two  miles  beyond  lay  the  race-track,  and  in  November  even  Con- 
gress had  been  known  to  adjourn  'at  an  early  hour,'  to  give  the  legislators 
sufficient  time  for  the  four-mile  walk  to  the  turf,  their  women,  'decorated 
as  if  for  a  ball,'  stumbling  along  beside  them.5 

Calhoun's  expenses  were  staggering.  Floride  had  been  'dangerously  ill' 
from  a  miscarriage  in  1818,e  and  within  the  next  seven  years  would  bear 
four  mote  children.  In  addition,  as  Calhoun  told  John  Ewing,  'My  situa- 
tion exposes  me  almost  incessantly  to  company,  which  greatly  increases 


.  J  7 


my  expenses. 

The  Master  of  Dumbarton  Oaks,  the  Secretary  of  War,  must  live  in  a 
style  befitting  his  position.  For  himself  he  could  dress  with  'Spartan  sim- 
plicity/ but  Floride  must  have  her  ball  gowns  of  'elegant  white  velvet/  or 
'muslin  trimmed  with  lace  over  white  satin.7  She  must  have  feathers  for 
evening  wear  at  nine  dollars  the  pair.  She  must  have  her  turbans,  ranging 
from  eight  dollars  for  'the  most  ordinary  head-dres%'  to  as  high  as  fifteen. 
And  as  no  'lady  of  the  ton9  could  be  seen  in  the  same  ensemble  twice,  she 
'must  have  a  new  one  almost  every  time  she  went  into  company.'  She 
must  and  did  have  a  coach  and  four,  and,  according  to  the  wife  of  Secre- 
tary Crowninshield,  such  'horses  could  not  be  fed  through  a  Washington 
winter  for  less  than  seven  hundred  dollars.7  8 

At  frequent  intervals  Adams's  Diary  notes  a  dinner  party  at  Calhoun's, 
a  banquet  for  the  members  of  the  British  Legation  or  the  departmental 
heads,  an  evening  party  or  a  ball.  And  the  guest  lists  were  long.  As  early 
as  1819,  over  Calhoun's  weary  remonstrances,  for  he  had  neither  time  nor 
energy  to  call  on  any  but  his  closest  friends,9  Floride  resolved  to  visit 
every  Congressman's  wife  in  Washington.  The  Calhouns  knew  everyone, 
and  everyone  came  to  their  parties.  Onlookers,  huddled  in  the  shadows 
near  the  gateway,  could  watch  the  great  and  the  near-great—Mr,  and  Mrs. 
John  Quincy  Adams,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  William  Wirt,  President  and  Mrs. 
James  Monroe— stepping  down  from  their  carriages  and  hurrying  up  the 
flight  of  steps  to  the  columned  doorway,  where  Calhoun,  his  slender  figure 
dark  against  the  candlelight,  stood  waiting  to  greet  them.  But  for  the 
curious  bystanders,  the  most  unforgettable  moment  was  the  night  that  a 
tall,  surprisingly  fragile  figure,  with  'stiff  and  wiry7  hair  and  full  uniform, 
Andrew  Jackson,  the  hero  of  New  Orleans,  was  the  honored  guest. 

Behind  all  this  flash  and  frivolity  ran  a  purpose,  and  as  the  place  was 


138  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

Washington  and  the  protagonist  Calhoun,  it  is  not  difficult  to  guess  that 
the  purpose  was  political. 


On  a  night  in  late  December,  1821,  carriages  rolled  to  a  stop  before  Cal- 
houn's  house.  From  them  descended  a  group  of  Congressmen,  mostly 
Pennsylvanians,  although  there  were  a  few  South  Carolinians  included. 
They  lingered  a  moment  in  front,  talking  in  hurried  whispers,  before  pro- 
ceeding to  the  door.10 

A  Negro  butler  took  their  coats  and  hats,  showed  them  into  a  chamber 
where  candles  were  burning.  From  a  pile  of  books  and  papers,  Calhoun 
turned  and  arose  in  greeting. 

Unfortunately,  we  have  no  record  of  what  went  on  behind  those  doors 
that  evening.  All  we  know  is  that  the  spokesman  shot  forth  a  Question 
which  Calhoun  received  'shaken  and  irresolute.'  All  Washington  was 
conjecturing  the  next  day  as  to  why  the  ambitious  Mr.  Calhoun  should 
have  accepted  a  proffered  nomination  for  the  Presidency  only  with  'hesita- 
tion.' Calhoun  knew.  Lowndes  was  his  best  friend;  it  was  Lowndes,  not 
Calhoun,  whom  the  South  Carolina  Legislature  had  nominated  without  a 
dissenting  vote  a  few  months  before.  Calhoun  discussed  the  matter  with 
Lowndes,  protesting  that  he  had  not  sought  the  honor,  and  he  only  hoped 
that  it  would  not  injure  their  friendship.11 

Lowndes  was  not  surprised.  Had  the  Charlestonian  put  forth  one-tenth 
of  the  energy  expended  by  Calhoun  in  his  pursuit  of  the  Presidential 
bubble,  his  challenge  might  have  been  formidable.  Papers  like  the  Rich- 
mond Enquirer,  torn  between  support  of  Crawford  and  Calhoun,  would 
have  had  little  hesitation  about  a  man  praised  as  embodying  the  'modera- 
tion of  George  Washington.712  But  Lowndes  had  no  energy  or  ambition 
left.  He  was  gravely  ill,  often  lying  in  bed  until  one  or  two  in  the  after- 
noon, when  Calhoun  would  rouse  him  for  dinner ; 1S  and  press  reports 
described  him  as  'verging  to  the  grave.'  He  could  smile  now  at  the  gibe 
of  Charleston  aristocrats,  still  suspicious  of  'Pat'  Calhoun's  son,  that  'Mr. 
Lowndes  had  most  of  the  State,  but  Mr.  Calhoun  had  Pendleton  District 
and  Mr.  Lowndes.' 14  The  Charlestonian  knew  that  his  'nomination*  was 
only  a  courtesy;  that  actually  only  57  of  the  110  members  of  the  Legis- 
lature had  assembled  to  vote  approval  of  his  name.  He  could  assure  Cal- 
houn that  if  his  prospects  became  'favorable'  undoubtedly  South  Caro- 
lina would  turn  her  support  toward  him.  'I  know  him  and  estimate  him 
too  well  to  be  mortified  by  any  preference  which  they  may  express  for 
him,'15  he  wrote.  And  to  the  surprise  of  all  Washington,  the  two  con- 
tinued their  daily  walks  together. 

Calhoun  was  not  really  surprised.  It  had  been  good  politics  in  the  pre- 
vious summer  of  1820  to  thrust  all  thoughts  of  rest  aside  for  the  tour  of 


X  THE  MASTER  OF  DUMBARTON   OAKS  139 

military  fortifications.  Everywhere  Calhoun  had  reviewed  troops,  in- 
spected coastal  fortifications,  was  dined  and  wined  and  showered  with  at- 
tentions of  the  'most  flattering  kind.7 18  In  New  York  Harbor  hopeful  pro- 
tectionists had  almost  forcibly  held  him  for  hours  in  a  silk  mill  on  Staten 
Island,  but  he  emerged  uncommitted  and  unruffled,  and  went  on  to  visit 
the  Navy  Yard,  to  review  the  artillery,  and,  standing  at  attention,  to 
receive  the  salute  of  the  marching  troops. 

In  Newburyport,  where  the  bitterness  of  1812  still  lingered,  hospitality 
for  the  former  War  Hawk  was  at  a  minimum.  The  Secretary  of  War  had 
spent  the  night  in  a  sedate  chamber  with  a  spool  bed  and  a  sleigh  bureau 
in  the  whitewashed  pre-Revolutionary  Wolfe  Tavern.  On  September  IS, 
he  had  slipped  into  Boston  unannounced  for  a  night  of  badly  needed  sleep 
before  the  scheduled  three  days  of  festivities.  With  Daniel  Webster  at  his 
side  and  the  guns  of  Forts  Warren  and  Independence  booming  in  salute, 
Calhoun's  carriage  rolled  through  the  twisting  streets,  past  the  mudflats, 
the  cows  on  the  Common,  and  the  crowds  that  cheered  from  the  windows 
of  the  second-story  overhangs.  That  night  a  party  was  held  at  a  square- 
rigged  three-story  house  on  Somerset  Street,  and  over  glasses  of  Web- 
ster's best  Madeira,  the  lawyers  of  Boston  listened  and  lingered  as  Web- 
ster drew  out  his  guest.  'Mr.  Calhoun  talked  much  and  most  agreeably/ 
recorded  one  of  the  group,  'and  it  was  evident  to  all  of  us  that  Mr.  Web- 
ster desired  ...  to  show  him  under  the  most  favorable  aspect  to  his 
friends.7  It  was  no  secret  among  the  young  lawyers  of  Boston  after  that 
dinner  party  that  'Mr.  Webster  wished  Mr.  Calhoun  to  be  the  next  Presi- 
dent of  the  United  States.' 17  Calhoun  returned  to  Washington  in  exuberant 
spirits.  The  trip,  he  said,  had  been  'useful/  but  whether  to  the  country 
or  to  himself  he  failed  to  specify.18  If  the  military  fortifications  of  young 
America  had  been  on  exhibition,  so,  too,  had  the  Secretary  of  War. 


There  had  never  been  a  Presidential  election  like  that  battle  of  1824. 
There  would  never  be  one  like  it  again.  The  jockeying  for  position  started 
as  early  as  1820.  Almost  every  top-rank  statesman  who  had  not  already 
held  the  office  was  running  now,  and  the  mere  list  of  candidates  sounds 
like  a  roll-call  of  American  history.  John  Quincy  Adams,  Daniel  Webster,* 
Henry  Clay,  William  H.  Crawford,  William  Lowndes,  Andrew  Jackson, 
John  C.  Calhoun. 

Leading  aspirant  in  the  nation's  opinion,  as  well  as  his  own,  was  Wil- 
liam H.  Crawford  of  Georgia,  who  felt  that  he  had  been  defrauded  of 
the  nomination  in  1816.  A  fledgling  Congressman,  Calhoun  of  South  Caro- 
lina, had  then  supported  the  claims  of  Secretary  of  State  Monroe,  and 

*  A  Massachusetts  'favorite  son/  but,  as  we  have  seen,  actually  in  favor  of  Calhoun. 


140  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

had  lashed  out  bitterly  against  caucus  nominations  which  stole  the  'right- 
ful' power  of  choice  from  the  people.  Now  Crawford  had  the  caucus,  un- 
divided. He  had  the  machine.  He  had  the  politicians.  He  had  the  press. 
Furthermore,  he  had,  so  it  was  said,  the  support  of  Thomas  Jefferson 
himself,19  a  legend  which  continual  repetition  has  written  into  history. 
For  Crawford,  despite  his  noisy  protestations  of  Jeffersonianism,  was 
actually  the  standard-bearer  of  the  slaveholding  element,  as  opposed  to 
Jefferson's  'interior  democracy.720  The  sage  of  Monticello,  realizing  as 
early  as  1822  that  the  final  race  would  be  between  Adams  and  Crawford, 
regarding  these  gentlemen  was  'entirely  passive.7  21  'For  all  of  the  gentle- 
men named  as  subjects  of  the  future  election,'  he  wrote  Thomas  Ritchie, 
'I  have  the  highest  esteem.7  M  Equally  noncommittal  was  President  Mon- 
roe, despite  Crawford7s  fervent  claim  of  support  from  the  entire  'Virginia 
Dynasty.7  Nevertheless,  Crawford  had  claims,  support,  and  hopes,  with 
more  than  a  scant  chance  of  fulfilling  them. 

Next  came  Henry  Clay.  Clay  was  campaigning  in  sheer  desperation. 
Just  how  much  his  gambling  debts  had  cost  him  was  not  a  subject  of 
polite  conversation — John  Quincy  Adams  put  the  sum  at  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars  for  the  winter  of  1823  alone.23  Without  a  speedy  im- 
provement in  his  finances,  he  would  be  obliged  to  resign  the  Speakers 
chair  and  retreat  to  his  Kentucky  law  practice  in  order  to  provide  for  a 
family  which  had  increased  as  rapidly  as  his  means  had  diminished. 

Unknown  quantity  in  the  race  was  'Old  Hickory/  the  'Peopled  Friend/ 
Andrew  Jackson  of  Tennessee.  No  one  really  gave  him  any  serious  con- 
sideration; that  is,  no  one  in  Washington.  After  all,  as  Henry  Clay  had 
asked,  did  'killing  2,500  Englishmen  at  New  Orleans  automatically  en- 
dow a  man  with  the  qualities  of  statesmanship?7  **  Calhoun  had  described 
the  hero  of  New  Orleans  as  'a  disciple  of  the  school  of  Jefferson,7  but  from 
the  heights  of  Monticello,  Jefferson  himself  hastily  disclaimed  all  re- 
sponsibility for  the  fighting  General.25 

Strangely  enough,  'the  ladies'  found  both  charm  and  grace  in  this 
rough-hewn  fighter  from  the  wilds.  Webster  might  argue  that  at  heart 
Massachusetts  preferred  Calhoun  to  Jackson;  that  Calhoun  was  'almost 
a  Northern  man.7  Yet  even  Webster  conceded  that  Jackson7s  manners 
were  'more  Presidential  than  any  of  the  candidates7;  he  was  'grave,  mild, 
and  reserved.  .  .  .  My  wife,'  he  regretfully  admitted,  'is  decidedly  for 
him.'25 

Calhoun  had  no  fears.  He  underestimated  the  General  completely;  as 
late  as  1822  he  was  convinced  that  the  final  race  would  be  between  him- 
self, Adams,  and  Crawford.  Jackson  was  his  friend,  his  fervent  admirer. 
Andrew  Jackson  was  for  him.  Calhoun  had  no  objection  to  the  General 
shooting  off  a  few  diversionary  fireworks  in  the  Southwest.  Old  Hickory 
was  popular,  and  this  would  be  of  use  in  winning  votes  for  Calhoun.  Jack- 
son had  no  desire  for  office.  Had  he  not  himself  declared:  'Do  they  think 


X  THE   MASTER  OP  DUMBARTON   OAKS  141 

that  I  am  ...  damned  fool  enough  to  think  myself  fit  for  President?  No, 
Sir.'  *  Undoubtedly  Tennessee's  favorite  son  would  settle  for  a  term  in 
the  Vice-Presidential  chair,  and  the  Southwest  could  catch  seats  on  the 
Calhoun  bandwagon. 

Reports  that  'clever  propaganda  was  turning  Pennsylvania  Jackson 
mad'  did  not  disturb  Calhoun;  the  manufacturers  of  that  state  knew 
that  Calhoun  was  a  sound  tariff  man.  But  he  did  not  realize  that  the 
people  had  more  votes  than  the  manufacturers,  and  to  expect  the  people 
to  weigh  the  merits  of  a  sound  tariff  against  twenty-five  hundred  dead 
Englishmen,  to  say  nothing  of  uncounted  dead  Cherokees,  Creeks,  Semi- 
noles,  and  sundry  Spaniards,  was  asking  too  much  of  human  nature.  Cal- 
houn had  not  won  the  Battle  of  New  Orleans. 

The  Jackson  boom  was  not  spontaneous,  of  course.  The  more  spon- 
taneous Presidential  booms  appear,  the  more  shrewd  have  been  the 
manipulations  behind  them.  And  the  man  pulling  the  strings  for  Jackson 
was  Major  William  B.  Lewis. 

Calhoun  had  his  devoted  supporters,  but  it  is  doubtful  if  even  the  most 
inflamed  of  them  saw  their  hero  as  a  combination  of  Alexander,  Julius 
Caesar,  and  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  which  was  Lewis's  idea  of  the  General. 
Lewis  was  that  rarity,  a  selfless  hero-worshiper.  He  fought  for  Jackson 
because  he  loved  him,  and  once  his  seven-year  mission  was  accomplished, 
he  packed  his  bags  for  home.  Furthermore,  he  had  a  talent  for  moving 
with-  such-  stealth  that  the  battle  was  over  almost  before  his  antagonists 
had  felt  the  attack. 

As  Jackson's  quartermaster  in  the  old  Creek  War,  Lewis's  roots  struck 
deep  among  the  soldiers,  the  moccasined  fighters  from  the  frontier.  Through 
them  a  'tremendous  and  irrepressible  demand  for  the  hero  of  New  Or- 
leans' began  to  spring  up  in  state  after  state.  And  while  Calhoun  read 
'sheets  of  extracts  of  letters  from  all  parts  of  the  country' — even  New 
England — 'shewing  his  rapid  increase  of  popularity  .  .  ,J28  Lewis  was 
burrowing  through  a  muddy  political  situation,  pulling  a  string  here  and 
a  wire  there,  setting  off  'spontaneous'  Jackson  movements  across  the 
country. 

And  there  was  John  Quincy  Adams.  By  precedent  Mr.  Adams  asserted 
his  rights  to  the  office.  He  was  Secretary  of  State,  and  for  twenty-three 
years  the  Secretary  of  State  had  automatically  stepped  straight  into  the 
President's  house  upon  locking  up  his  desk  at  the  State  Department.  Mr. 
Adams  was  expectant,  and  bitterly  resentful  of  anyone  who  might  chal- 
lenge his  expectations. 


The  America  of  1822  accepted  the  news  of  Calhoun's  candidacy  with 
mixed  reactions.  Newpapers  which  had  been  unstinted  in  their  praise  of 


142  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

the  youthful  Congressman  'who  carried  the  war  upon  his  shoulders,7  or 
'the  most  brilliant  young  cabinet  officer  since  Alexander  Hamilton/  dodged 
the  question.  'Impolitic  and  premature'  was  the  verdict  of  the  Winchester, 
Virginia,  Republican;  he  should  wait  a  couple  of  terms.29  Even  the  Rich- 
mond Enquirer  wondered  at  the  'superior  pretensions'  which  brought  Mr. 
Calhoun  'unexpectedly  .  .  .  forward  into  a  race  with  so  many  strong 
men.' 30 

'His  age,  or  rather  his  youth/  as  Judge  Story  put  it,  was  the  chief  fac- 
tor against  him.  'Being  but  a  very  young  man,  he  may  ...  be  of  use  to 
his  country  in  a  subordinate  station,'31  sneered  Crawford's  Washington 
Gazette,  on  which  Macon  commented:  'I  do  not  call  his  being  too  young 
a  solid  objection  when  he  will  be  about  eight  years  older  in  1825  than 
our  Constitution  requires/82  The  Gazette,  however,  aware  that  a  lie 
asserted  is  still  fifty  per  cent  effective  when  denied,  pronounced  the  Presi- 
dential hopeful  to  be  thirty,  or  five  years  below  the  constitutional  age  re- 
quirement. The  damage  was  done,  although  Calhoun's  press  retorted  that 
the  candidate  must  have  been  'elected  to  Congress  at  a  very  early  period 
...  as  it  is  now  nearly  twelve  years  since  he  first  took  his  seat  in  the 
House.' » 

Most  oldsters  regarded  Calhoun's  ambitions  with  smiling  indulgence. 
'A  smart  fellow,'  was  Gallatin's  dismissal,  'one  of  the  first  amongst  second- 
rate  men,  but  of  lax  political  principles  and  a  disordinate  ambition,  not 
over  delicate  in  the  means  of  satisfying  itself.'  He  was  only  forty,  restless 
and  striving;  what  would  there  be  for  him  in  later  life?  William  Winston 
Seaton  put  the  question;  Calhoun's  answer  came  with  promptitude:  'I 
would  retire  and  write  my  memoirs.'  ** 

Yet,  to  the  surprise  of  the  country,  the  South  Carolinian's  candidacy  took 
hold.  True,  Thomas  Jefferson  was  silent,  although  his  fellow  Virginian, 
William  Wirt,  enthusiastically  declared  that  he  would  turn  Calhoun 
'loose'  in  the  Old  Dominion  'against  any  man  there  but  Jefferson/  Cer- 
tainly, where  five  candidates  were  grappling  for  one  prize,  any  man 
who  commanded  as  many  groups  as  Calhoun  did  commanded  also  the 
attention,  if  not  the  votes  of  the  nation.85 

Primarily,  he  was  the  young  men's  candidate.  'He  has  been  sneeringly 
called  "the  young  Mr.  Calhoun," *  wrote  the  Boston  Galaxy.  'This  gives 
him  an  advantage.'  His  alone  was  'a  mind  untainted  with  the  prejudices' 
of  this  'turbulent  period.' se  Though  a  decade  had  passed  since  Calhoun 
and  Harry  Clay  together  had  sounded  the  trumpet-call  of  the  'Second 
American  Revolution/  there  was  still  about  him  the  vigor,  the  ardent, 
pulsating  nationalism  of  the  days  of  1812.  Back  in  South  Carolina,  local 
pride  overruled  objections  on  tariffs  and  internal  improvements.  It  was 
good  campaign  talk  along  the  mountain  fringes  of  the  Carolinas,  and  even 
in  Crawford's  Georgia,  that  John  Calhoun  was  a  back-countryman  still; 
the  son  of  an  Indian  fighter  and  soldier  of  the  Revolution,  a  man  who 


X  THE  MASTER  OF   DUMBARTON   OAKS  143 

himself  had  known  the  feel  of  a  plow  in  his  hands  and  a  rifle  against  his 
cheek. 

There  were  the  frontiersmen  along  the  borders  and  the  young,  hot- 
blooded,  planting  South,  aristocratic  groups  even  in  Virginia,  who  in  ball- 
rooms and  around  banquet  tables  had  found  Calhoun's  manner  far  more 
'easy'  and  pleasing  than  Crawford's  booming  geniality.  There  were  na- 
tionalists and  business  leaders  who  had  thrilled  to  his  plans  for  internal 
improvements  and  protection  for  'infant  industries';  and,  above  all,  there 
were  the  officers  and  men  of  the  United  States  Army,  whose  cause  the 
Secretary  of  War  had  championed. 

They  Vent  for  him'  with  a  gusto  that  appalled  the  conservative  elders. 
His  campaign  biographers,  for  the  benefit  of  those  neither  privileged  to 
see  nor  hear  the  Presidential  hopeful,  described  Calhoun  closely:  the  lean 
frame/  the  'brilliant  .  .  .  penetrating'  eyes,  the  'striking'  face  which  so 
'lighted  up5  in  moments  of  feeling,  seeming  to  mirror  his  very  thoughts. 
'A  stranger  in  a  casual  interview,'  proclaimed  the  enthusiast,  'would  pro- 
nounce him  no  ordinary  man.' ST 

An  efficient  corps  of  newspaper  editors  'sounded  his  praises  throughout 
the  Union.3  He  was  hailed  as  the  'Father  of  the  Army,'  and  a  'Star  in  our 
political  firmament.'  He  was  acclaimed  for  his  'power  of  analysis/  his  keen 
understanding  of  America  and  Americans,  as  a  whole.  Writers  stressed  the 
'stability'  of  his  mind;  for  genius,  which  the  nation  had  long  conceded 
to  John  Calhoun,  was  something  to  be  admired  from  a  distance;  but  in 
the  mass  mind  of  popular  democracy,  mediocrity  or  'common-sense/  was 
far  more  to  be  trusted.  Charges  of  'aristocracy'  which  his  flawless  courtesy 
and  lavish  style  of  living  had  brought  down  upon  him  were  countered 
with  vehement  assurances  that  his  manners  were  'plain'  and  'unassuming/ 
and  that  he  gave  a  'constant  impression  of  kindliness  and  good  will.' w 

It  was  too  much.  Despite  his  'undeniable  talent  for  gaining  on  stran- 
gers/ he  could  not  see  and  impress  his  personality  upon  every  voter  in  the 
United  States.  Actually  his  popularity  was  more  with  the  newspapermen 
than  with  the  people;  the  very  zeal  of  his  followers  wearied  the  public. 
'He  has  made  more  noise  than  all  the  Presidential  candidates  put  to- 
gether/ protested  an  anonymous  'Cassius'  in  the  Columbia,  South  Caro- 
lina, Telescope.  'If  we  are  to  believe  one  half  of  what  is  said,  'his  talents 
greatly  transcend  the  limits  we  have  heretofore  ascribed  to  the  human 
intellect.  Compared  with  him,  even  Washington  and  Jefferson  are  second- 
ary characters.' 39 

Calhoun's  own  self-confidence  was  supreme.  It  was  no  bluff;  to  his 
campaign  managers  he  proclaimed:  'I  am  decidedly  the  strongest  of  the 
candidates.'  He  was  unshaken  by  a  warning  that  'We  must  prepare  for 
new  opposition.'40  Was  he  not,  both  in  New  England  and  the  West, 
'clearly'  the  second  choice?  Even  in  South  Carolina,  was  he  not  now 
'universally  popular?'*1  Why  should  he  doubt  himself;  had  he  ever  lost 


144  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

a  fight  in  his  life?  He  would  win.  He  had  seen  'not  a  single  line  to  the 
contrary.7  *2 


His  personality,  not  his  principles,  compelled  attention.  Where  he  had 
stood  was  clear  on  the  records;  where  he  would  stand  was  a  mystery 
even  to  himself.  The  country  was  in  transition,  and  so  was  he.  The  task 
was  great— even  for  Calhoun's  intellect— the  task  of  being  a  nationalist  in 
the  North,  a  states'  rights  man  in  the  South — and  at  peace  with  his  own 
soul.  No  doubt  the  very  haziness  of  his  views  was  an  asset  to  a  candidate 
who  must  be  all  things  to  all  men.  But  Calhoun  himself  derived  no  en- 
joyment from  cloudy  thinking.  While  he  was  fighting  a  forthcoming  tariff 
bill  in  Congress  and  begging  Monroe  to  'modify  expressions  favourable 
to  the  manufacturers,7  in  his  second  inaugural,  Calhoun's  Washington 
Republican  was  wooing  votes  from  the  pro-tariff  forces.  'We  must  bring 
our  workshops  from  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic/  was  the  Republican's 
declaration,  'and  place  our  manufacturing  establishments  alongside  of 
our  farms.' 43 

States'  rights  presented  a  series  of  question  marks.  'When  did  Mr.  Cal- 
houn announce  himself  a  States'  rights  man?'  asked  Daniel  Webster, 
years  later.  'Nobody  knew  of  his  claiming  that  character  until  after  the 
election  of  1825.' "  Yet  as  early  as  1823  Calhoun  was  writing  his  friend 
Swift  that  'so  far  from  being  the  friend  of  consolidation,  I  consider  .  .  . 
the  rights  of  the  State  .  .  .  essential  to  liberty.  The  division  of  power 
between  the  local  and  federal  governments  ...  is  the  most  .  .  .  beauti- 
ful feature  in  our  whole  system.'45  To  Virginia's  Congressman,  Robert 
Garnett,  he  added,  'As  much  as  I  value  freedom  ...  do  I  value  State 
rights.'40  Only  under  this  system,  in  the  nation  or  in  the  world,  could 
small  units  survive  in  safety. 

Dimly  he  perceived  what  in  future  years  would  become  the  corner- 
stone of  his  political  philosophy — that  the  balancing  and  the  protection 
of  the  varied  'interests'  of  the  country  were  essential  to  liberty.  But  now, 
with  unwarranted  optimism,  he  was  convinced  that  the  Northern  states 
alone  comprised  'within  themselves  all  of  the  great  interests  .  .  .  com- 
merce and  Navigation,  agriculture  and  manufacturing.  ...  If  they  act 
wisely  for  themselves,'  reasoned  Calhoun,  'they  ,  .  .  must  act  wisely  for 
the  union.' 4T 

On  constitutional  construction  his  views  were  conclusive.  Any  'doubt- 
ful portion  of  the  Constitution  must  be  construed  by  itself  in  reference 
to  the  ...  intent  of  the  framers  of  the  instrument.'  He  had  taken  the 
stand  that  he  would  maintain  through  life,  but  it  is  doubtful  that  the 
nation,  as  yet,  even  suspected  his  true  opinions. 

Internal  improvements?  How,  asked  doubting  Southerners,  could  Mr. 


X  THE  MASTER  OF   DUMBARTON   OAKS  145 

Calhoun  call  for  roads  and  canals  on  the  one  hand  and  strict  constitutional 
construction  on  the  other?  Mr.  Calhoun's  answer  was  guarded.  Had 
not  Jefferson,  Madison,  Monroe  all  favored  appropriations  for  internal 
improvements?  Had  he,  personally,  ever  done  more  than  urge  such  ap- 
propriations? Did  this  compel  any  state  to  accept  them?  The  govern- 
ment should  appropriate  funds,  'not  as  a  sovereign  .  .  .  but  as  a  mere 
proprietor.  ...  I  have  never  yet,7  he  said  carefully,  'committed  myself 
beyond  the  mere  right  of  making  appropriations.'  All  of  his  acts,  he 
contended,  were  'covered  by  the  acts  of  Jefferson.' tt 


6 

He  played  politics  when  he  deemed  the  occasion  necessary.  He  could 
write  Nicholas  Biddle,  for  instance,  of  his  'deep  solicitude  in  the  pros- 
perity of  the  Bank,'  of  his  pleasure  at  Mr.  Biddle's  presidency  of  that 
establishment,  and  he  gave  his  assurances,  later  deeply  regretted,  that  if 
he  could  'render  aid  to  the  institution,  it  will  afford  me  much  pleasure.' 
Yet  to  Garnett  he  admitted  that  he  had  always  thought  the  constitutional 
power  through  which  the  National  Bank  Bill  had  been  passed,  'the  least 
clear  of  those  exercised  by  Congress.'  The  'late  war'  had  brought  about  an 
unconstitutional  situation,  through  which,  in  practice,  Congress  had  lost 
its  power  to  fix  and  regulate  the  value  of  the  currency.  The  'great  object' 
of  the  Bank  Bill  had  been  to  restore  constitutional  law.  That  Congress 
actually  had  power  to  create  a  National  Bank,  he  would  not  say;  he  con- 
tended only  that  the  measure  had  been  'justifiable  in  the  existing  circum- 
stances.' 49 

And  it  was  on  political  grounds  alone  that  Calhoun,  indignant  at  Con- 
gressional attacks,  determined  to  defeat  John  W.  Taylor's  aspirations  for 
a  second  term  as  Speaker.  His  choice  of  a  successor  did  little  credit  to  Ms 
sincerity,  however,  since  the  puritanical  John  Quincy  Adams  was  hor- 
rified one  morning  to  find  Calhoun  and  a  friend  joking  and  laughing  about 
the  new  Speaker,  Philip  P.  Barbour  of  Virginia,  whom  they  thought  'as 
ill-chosen  ...  as  if  drawn  by  lot.'  It  is  probable  that  Barbour's  subse- 
quent appointment  to  the  Supreme  Court  by  President  Jackson  did  not 
enhance  either  Calhoun's  or  Adams's  opinion  of  his  qualities.* 

To  Adams  the  situation  was  no  laughing  matter.  'You  have  done  your- 
self ill  service,'  he  sneered.  Calhoun  sobered  instantly. 

'Mr.  Calhoun,'  the  Massachusetts  prosecutor  continued,  'you  may  thank 
yourself  for  it  all.  You,  and  you  alone,  made  Mr.  Barbour  Speaker.  .  .  . 
You  have  not  forgotten  how  earnestly  I  entreated  you  not  to  prevent  the 

*  Oddly  enough,  John  Quincy  Adams,  as  President,  appointed  Barbour's  brother, 
James,  Secretary  of  War  and  then  Minister  to  England. 


146  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

re-election  of  Taylor,  who  had  offered  friendship  ...  to  the  Adminis- 
tration and  would  have  kept  his  word.' 

Calhoun  had  the  grace  to  admit  that  he  remembered. 

Well,  you  succeeded  in  turning  him  out,  and  you  have  got  one  ten  times 
worse  in  his  stead.' 50 


On  the  Missouri  question,  'the  fire-bell  in  the  night/  Jefferson  had  called 
it,  Calhoun  was  entirely  'available,'  having  taken  no  stand  at  all  in  1820 
or  afterward.  Crawford  had  been  less  cautious,  had  definitely  asserted 
that  'If  the  Union  is  of  more  importance  to  the  South  than  slavery,  the 
South  should  immediately  take  measures  for  gradual  emancipation.  .  .  . 
But  if  ...  slavery  is  of  more  vital  importance  than  .  .  .  the  Union 
.  .  „  she  should  at  once  secede.  .  .  .' 51  Legislature  after  legislature  in  the 
Northern  states  was  passing  resolutions,  condemning  slavery  as  a  crime. 
And  at  Monticello,  Thomas  Jefferson,  still  convinced  that  emancipation 
was  inevitable,  looked  with  unfeigned  terror  on  the  public  demand  for 
boxing  slavery  up  in  the  Southern  states.  Only  with  the  evil  dispersed, 
only  with  the  ever-increasing  numbers  of  blacks  not  confined  to  one  area 
where  they  would  soon  outnumber  and  terrify  the  whites,  would  the  South 
ever  attain  the  security  under  which  she  could  voluntarily  emancipate,  sc 
he  thought,  without  fear  of  dominance  by  the  black  race. 

John  Randolph  of  Roanoke,  almost  alone  in  his  time,  saw  what  the 
abortive  Compromise  meant  and  warned  unflinchingly,  if  Congress  could 
exclude  slavery  in  a  territory,  over  the  will  of  its  own  people,  'how  long 
will  it  be,  before  two  thirds  of  the  States  will  be  free?  Then  you  can 
change  the  Constitution  and  place  slavery  under  the  control  of  Congress 
— and  under  such  circumstances,  how  long  will  it  be  permitted  to  remain 
in  any  state?' 52 

Calhoun,  characteristically,  had  deplored  the  'agitation/  as  he  was  to 
do  all  his  life.  'I  can  scarcely  conceive  of  a  cause  sufficient  to  divide  the 
Union/  he  said  somberly,  'unless  a  belief  arose  in  the  slaveholding  states 
that  it  was  the  interest  of  the  Northern  states  to  conspire  gradually  against 
their  property  in  the  slaves,  and  that  disunion  is  the  only  means  to  avert 
the  evil.' 63 

Over  the  Monroe  Cabinet,  the  Missouri  question  had  broken  with  the 
roar  of  a  thunderbolt.  To  Adams  the  question  was  moral,  the  Compromise 
'a  law  to  perpetuate  slavery.'  To  Monroe  it  was  constitutional — a  ques- 
tion as  to  whether  a  law  prohibiting  slavery  in  a  territory  would  not  hold 
over  when  that  territory  became  a  state.  Would  not  that  state  then  be 
prevented  from  entering  the  Union  on  equal  terms  with  the  other  states? 

Calhoun  supplied  the  answers.  Personally  he  thought  that  Congress  could 


X  THE  MASTER  OF   DUMBARTON   OAKS  147 

regulate  slavery  in  the  territories — a  thought  that  he  would  deeply  regret 
in  later  life.  He  agreed  that  there  was  'no  express  authority  in  the  Con- 
stitution'; perhaps,  as  President  Monroe  had  pointed  out,  the  'implied 
powers'  clause  was  sufficient.  But  the  Missouri  Compromise  was  an  ex- 
pedient necessity.  Why  worry  as  to  whether  the  Missouri  Bill  would 
prevent  slavery  'forever'  in  the  area  north  of  36°30'  or  'merely  in  the 
Territorial  state'?  Why  not  merely  declare  the  Compromise  constitu- 
tional? Why,  even  Mr.  Adams  could  vote  for  that.54  The  'practical,  aspiring' 
politician  had  spoken. 

Mr.  Adams  did  vote  for  it.  So  did  the  entire  Cabinet.  Calhoun's  neat 
evasion  had  furnished  a  way  out,  which  was  seized  upon  with  gratitude. 
But  it  had  also  left  the  entire  Cabinet  with  a  memory  of  Calhoun's  stand, 
a  memory  that  he  would  have  done  much  to  obliterate  from  their  minds 
in  the  years  to  come. 


Washington  streets  were  filled  with  confident  partisans  of  one  or  another 
of  the  Presidential  candidates.  Many  sported  silk  waistcoats  on  which 
the  heads  of  their  heroes  were  printed  from  wood  blocks:  Jackson's  hair 
bristling,  Clay  smiling  confidently,  Adams  looking  out  in  cool  disdain,  and 
Calhoun  'with  a  touch  of  defiance.'  Henry  Clay  was  swaggering  about  the 
capital,  arguing  'dogmatically  about  the  tarifi'  at  dinner  parties,  loudly 
announcing  that  he  had  eight  states  pledged  to  his  cause.  Growled  Adams: 
'He  plays  brag,  as  he  has  done  all  his  life.' 55 

Equally  assured  was  Calhoun.  'We  are  doing  well,'  he  exulted  to  Micah 
Sterling.  'Our  friends  were  never  in  better  spirits.'  Proudly  he  cited  his 
proofs  of  strength.  North  Carolina,  New  Jersey,  Pennsylvania — all  were 
certain;  Delaware  and  Maryland  almost  so.56  The  very  abuse  poured  upon 
him  seemed  proof  of  his  'rapid  and  .  .  .  real  progress'  toward  a  leading 
national  position.  'I  trust,3  he  declared,  'that  I  have  so  acted  that  my 

defense  will  be  an  easy  one  to  my  friends.' 57  Of  his  'd d  good-natured 

friends,'  who,  so  the  Philadelphia  Gazette  reported,  had  'nauseated  the 
people'  with  too  frequent  mention  of  his  name,  he  had  nothing  to  say. 

Adams,  fearful  of  the  Carolinian's  threats  to  his  own  ambitions,  deli- 
cately suggested  the  attractions  of  the  ambassadorship  to  France.  He  ex- 
pected more  from  Mr.  Calhoun— he  said— 'then  from  any  man  living  for 
the  benefit  of  the  public  service  of  this  nation.' 58  Foreign  service  would 
widen  his  horizons,  would  make  him  even  more  useful.  But  the  shrewd 
Southerner  was  not  thus  to  be  eased  out  of  his  prize,  and  curtly  responded 
that  he  lacked  the  money.  Monroe,  worn  to  distraction  by  the  fiercely 
interlocking  rivalries,  attempted  to  ease  hostilities  by  hustling  Andrew 
Jackson  out  of  the  country.  A  Mexican  mission  was  the  prize  held  out  to 


148  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

the  hero  of  New  Orleans,  but  here  again  Andrew  Jackson  had  far  more 
interest  in  the  prospects  of  Andrew  Jackson  than  in  diplomatic  bicker- 
ings. 

The  campaign  of  1824  was  the  most  bitter,  most  scurrilous  in  all  Amer- 
ican history  up  to  that  time.  Monroe's  legendary  'era  of  good  feeling' 
was  drowned  in  a  torrent  of  filth  and  invective,  in  which  newspapers  took 
the  lead.  The  press  was  'free'  in  the  eighteen-twenties.  Any  man  could 
start  a  paper  on  a  maximum  of  nerve  and  a  minimum  of  borrowed  credit. 
Any  political  promoter  could  skulk  behind  the  editorial  'we/  or  seek  pro- 
tection from  duels  and  lawsuits  in  the  comfortable  anonymity  of  'Cassius' 
or  'Vox  Populi.' 59  Editors  could  be  as  'easily  bought  and  sold'  as  bolts 
of  cloth.  'We  shall  give  our  whole  support,'  openly  announced  the  Boston 
Galaxy,  later  a  strong  Calhoun  organ,  'to  him  who  shall  pay  the  most 
liberally.560 

Personal  abuse  was  'a  mere  seasoning  of  dull  editorials.  .  .  .  Give  a 
dog  a  bad  name  and  you  hang  him!' 61  And  with  five  striving,  ambitious 
men  locked  in  a  death-struggle,  with  eager  partisans  ready  to  stoop  to 
anything  to  elect  their  favorites,  fortunes  awaited  young  men  with  a  dis- 
taste for  scruples  and  with  venom-dipped  pens  at  auction  to  the  highest 
bidder.62 

So  'the  gentlemen  of  the  press'  went  to  work.  They  began  with  Clay's 
'loose  morals'  and  Calhoun's  'loose  principles.'  They  charged  that  John 
Quincy  Adams  had  been  disinherited  for  his  private  and  public  indiscre- 
tions; and  added  that  he  walked  barefooted  to  church!  They  sneered  at 
Cglhoun  as  the  'Army  candidate,'  the  'Prince  of  Prodigies,'  a  dangerous, 
ambitious  man  whose  election  would  be  'a  calamity.'  They  snarled  at  An- 
drew Jackson.  He  was  a  drunkard,  a  bribe-taker,  a  swindler,  an  atheist, 
an  adulterer,  and  a  murderer.  He  was  'a  slave  speculator,'  and  'a  con- 
spirator with  the  notorious  Aaron  Burr.'  He  was  a  professional  duelist, 
who  had  tried  to  assassinate  Senator  Benton,  who  '.  .  .  in  the  town  of 
Nashville  „  .  .  deliberately  shot  down  Charles  Dickinson  .  .  .  and  then 
exultingly  wrote:  "I  left  the  d— — d  scoundrel  weltering  in  his  blood."  '  * 

Of  all  the  party  presses,  none  was  more  vitriolic  than  Crawford's. 
Calhoun  was  aware  of  its  aims,  and  told  Adams,  'with  great  bitterness/ 
that  never  in  our  history  had  there  been  a  man  'who  had  risen  so  high 
of  so  corrupt  a  character,  or  upon  so  slender  a  basis  of  service,'  as  Craw- 
ford. To  this  outburst  Adams  was  verbally  indifferent,  but  confided  to  his 
Diary  that  Crawford  and  Calhoun  were  nothing  but  'two  famished  wolves 
grappling  for  the  carcass  of  a  sheep';  and  that  the  campaign  itself  was 
only  'a  system  of  mining  and  countermining  between  Crawford  and  Cal- 
houn to  blow  up  each  other,  and  a  continued  underhand  working  of 
both,  jointly  against  me  ...  at  this  game  Crawford  is  ...  much  su- 
perior ...  to  Calhoun,  whose  hurried  ambition  will  probably  ruin  him- 
self and  secure  the  triumph  of  Crawford.' M 


X  THE  MASTER  OF  DUMBARTON  OAKS  149 

Calhoun  was  the  object  of  Adams's  particular  disfavor.  The  treatment 
the  New  Englander  had  received  from  Calhoun  and  his  friends  was  bad 
enough:  'professions  of  friendship'  on  one  hand,  and  secret  'acts  of  hos- 
tility' on  the  other.  For  Calhoun,  'dispirited'  by  the  harshness  of  the  Con- 
gressional attacks  upon  him,  seeking  comfort  and  advice,  Adams  could 
feel  sympathy.  But  for  the  man,  avowedly  as  ambitious  as  himself,  he 
could  feel  only  suspicion.  The  relations  in  which  I  now  stand  with  Cal- 
houn/ he  was  soon  to  write,  'are  delicate  and  difficult.'  w 

Calhoun  still  made  a  show  of  seeking  his  erstwhile  friend's  advice.  And 
on  a  hot  day  in  July,  1822,  on  his  way  to  a  dinner  party,  he  picked  up  the 
Secretary  of  State  and  unfolded  something  of  what  was  on  his  mind.  Wash- 
ington, he  said,  needed  an  'independent  newspaper.'  **  The  National  In- 
telligencer spoke  only  for  Clay  and  the  Gazette  for  Crawford.  Adams  re- 
mained noncommittal.  In  Calhoun's  sudden  interest  in  freedom  of  the 
press,  he  saw  the  forewarning  of  a  new  personal  organ — this  one  to  ad- 
vance the  interests  of  Calhoun  alone. 

By  fall  the  new  Washington  Republican  appeared,  and  none  too  soon* 
for  through  the  summer,  with  Calhoun  the  only  Cabinet  officer  in  town, 
the  Gazette  had  'kept  up  a  course  of  the  most  violent  abuse  and  ribaldry 
against  him.'  Even  the  fastidious  Adams,  for  all  his  increasing  distrust 
of  the  South  Carolinian,  recoiled  from  columns  of  'the  foulest  abuse  upon 
Calhoun  personally/  67 

Crawford  was  exultant.  Watching  Calhoun  day  by  day,  aware  of  his 
sensitivity  and  touchy  pride,  he  was  convinced  that  he  knew  his  man. 
He  knew  how  the  Carolinian  writhed  under  censure,  both  public  and 
private,  and  thought  him  too  proud,  too  much  'the  gentleman/  to  fight 
back  with  the  weapons  that  Crawford  himself  would  use. 

He  had  some  surprises  coming.  For  Calhoun  was  born  and  bred  a 
fighter.  He  was  perfectly  capable  of  taking  care  of  himself,  and  in  their 
way  his  weapons  were  as  deadly  as  Crawford's. 

To  surface  appearances  Calhoun's  new  Washington  Republican  was  a 
'literary'  sort  of  paper,  remarkably  free  from  the  medical  and  lottery 
advertisements  which  filled  the  columns  of  rival  journals.  True,  it  dwelt 
far  more  on  the  defects  of  Crawford  than  on  the  virtues  of  Calhoun,  but 
it  could  state — and  with  justification — that  it  would  'make  good  our 
premises  from  which  we  have  drawn  our  conclusions.7  w 

Crawford's  politics,  not  his  personality,  drew  the  South  Carolinian's 
fire.  Indignantly  he  denied  Crawford's  'assumption  of  the  Jefferson  policy/ 
and  proceeded  to  condemn  his  rival  out  of  his  own  mouth.  'Mr.  Craw- 
ford/ contended  the  issue  of  November  13,  1822,  'has  furtiished  a  con- 
clusive proof  of  his  hostility  to  the  Navy; — Vide,  his  speech — 1812 — in 
which  he  asserts  that  for  this  country  to  maintain  a  Navy  is  worse  than 
ridiculous.'  Where,  indeed,  was  Mr.  Crawford  during  'the  late  war?'  The 
Boston  Galaxy  had  the  answer:  'He  took  shelter  in  a  foreign  mission.' e9 


1S(X  JOHN  C.  CALHOUN 

Still  Crawford's  tune  blared  on.  The  vulgarity  of  his  attacks  appalled 
Adams;  they  were  'infamously  scurrilous  and  abusive,  not  only  upon  Mr. 
Calhoun  but  upon  his  mother-in-law.  This,'  declared  Adams  in  sardonic 
amusement,  'is  Mr.  Crawford's  mode  of  defensive  warfare.'70 

Calhoun  answered  with  columns  of  statistics,  illustrating  the  waste  and 
inefficiency  of  the  Treasury  Department;  Crawford  countered  with 
columns  of  filth.  The  Republican  replied  with  'firmness  and  moderation,' 
answering  only  the  more  gross  of  the  political  accusations.  'As  for  the 
personal  charges,  it  stated  with  dignity,  'we  deem  them  unworthy  of 
notice.' 

Adams  watched  the  by-play  admiringly.  'If  this  press  is  not  soon  put 
down/  he  told  his  Diary,  'Mr.  Crawford  has  an  ordeal  to  pass  through.' TL 


9 

Mr.  Crawford  did  have  an  ordeal  to  pass  through.  It  is  not  a  pretty 
story.  In  fact,  the  heat  it  engendered  has  scorched  the  pages  of  history 
for  a  hundred  years.  Partisans  of  Crawford  and  Calhoun  have  defended 
their  heroes  with  more  ardor  than  accuracy,  casting  the  two  alternately 
in  the  hero's  or  the  villain's  roles.  Bowers,*  for  instance,  gives  a  vivid 
picture  of  Crawford  as  the  injured  innocent,  and  Calhoun,  the  'scheming, 
not  overly  scrupulous  politician/  who  stooped  low  for  an  underhanded 
revenge.  Calhoun's  provocation,  however,  Bowers  does  not  discuss. 

Calhoun's  biographer,  Styron,f  reversed  the  story.  Here  Crawford  is 
the  scheming  villain;  Calhoun,  the  injured  innocent.  Of  the  vigorous  and 
wholehearted  revenge  that  Calhoun  actually  enjoyed,  Stryon  had  noth- 
ing to  say.  Had  Calhoun  been  content  to  suffer  in  noble  silence,  he  might 
indeed  have  been  the  marble-pure,  unearthly  figure  that  Mr.  Stryon  and 
Southern  legend  would  have  him  be. 

But  Calhoun  was  a  man.  He  was  a  proud,  passionate,  and  intensely 
ambitious  man.  His  pride  had  been  hurt.  His  anger  had  been  aroused. 
Had  he  scorned  to  strike  back,  he  would  have  been  far  more  admirable 
for  the  history  books — and  far  less  human.  Ten  years  in  Washington  had 
left  their  mark  upon  the  Carolinian.  Although  he  never  stooped  to  political 
corruption,  morally  his  character  was  at  the  lowest  ebb  of  his  entire 
career.  It  was  a  very  different  man  from  the  idealistic  young  farmer  of 
1812,  with  his  trust  and  faith  in  human  nature,  who  now  cynically  told 
John  Quincy  Adams  that  'the  passion  for  aggrandizement  is  the  law 
paramount  of  man  in  society.'  Crawford  had  betrayed  him,  betrayed  his 
aristocratic  lack  of  suspicion  of  his  fellow  men.  Now  Calhoun  took  his 
revenge. 

*  In  Party  Battles  of  the  Jackson  Period. 
t  In  The  Cast  Iron  Man. 


X  THE   MASTER  OF   DUMBARTON   OAKS  151 

On  the  nineteenth  of  April,  1823,  there  appeared  in  the  Republican  the 
first  of  a  series  of  documents  known  to  history  as  the  'A.B.  papers.'  Os- 
tensibly they  were  written  by  a  young  clerk  in  the  War  Office.  Actually 
they  were  written  by  Ninian  Edwards,  an  Illinois  Congressman  and  Cal- 
houn  supporter,  who  only  belatedly  denied  responsibility  for  them.72 

The  papers  created  a  sensation.  Here  were  no  mere  slurs  at  political 
misjudgments,  at  sloppy  bookkeeping,  or  careless  votes  on  significant 
questions.  Here,  in  plain,  unequivocating  language,  Crawford  was  charged 
with  gross  irregularities  and  'misconduct'  in  his  handling  of  federal  funds 
as  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  of  the  United  States.78 

The  public  was  enraged.  There  were  cries  for  documents  to  substanti- 
ate the  charges.  A  House  committee  assembled  for  an  investigation.  And 
Edwards,  from  his  sanctuary  as  a  Minister  in  Mexico  City,  produced  six 
more  charges  of  fraud  against  the  hapless  Crawford. 

How  much  truth  there  was  in  the  accusations  is  beside  the  point;  for 
actually  such  'proof '  as  there  was  had  been  before  Congress  all  the  time. 
What  mattered  was  the  impression  upon  public  opinion.  Calhoun's  revenge 
was  complete,  indeed. 

He  might  have  spared  himself  the  trouble.  Already  his  confidence  had 
cracked  under  the  first  crushing  defeat  of  his  career.  It  happened  in  Penn- 
sylvania, the  high-tariff  state  where  his  strength  had  seemed  so  assured. 
In  March,  1823,  the  state  convention  had  met.  All  had  been  arranged. 
With  united  voice  Pennsylvania  would  endorse  the  Presidential  candidacy 
of  the  Secretary  of  War.  Then  the  bandwagon  would  begin  to  roll:  New 
York,  New  Jersey,  New  England,  all  climbing  aboard. 

The  Calhoun  men  had  waited.  Secretly  the  Crawford,  the  Clay,  the 
Adams  men  had  worked.  When  the  vote  was  counted,  there  was  no  en- 
dorsement of  John  C,  Calhoun  or  anyone  else.  Pennsylvania  would  wait 
— and  see. 


10 

Was  President  Monroe  himself  favoring  Calhoun?  Officially,  of  course,  he 
could  take  no  stand.  Yet  his  personal  fondness  for  the  South  Carolinian 
was  no  secret  to  those  on  'the  inside.'  Their  understanding  was  complete. 
One  of  the  few  men  in  a  lifetime  to  whom  Calhoun  could  sign  a  letter, 
With  sincere  affection,'  was  James  Monroe/4 

Jealousy  pricked  at  Crawford.  'Our  Mars  has  intuitive  perceptions/ 
sneered  the  bitter  Georgian,  'upon  fortifications  and  all  other  military  sub- 
jects. These  intuitions  have  involved  the  president  in  contests.  ...  He 
[Calhoun]  has  contrived  to  make  them  those  of  the  President,  instead  of 
his  own.' 75  What  Crawford  did  not  say  was  that  Monroe,  with  his  genuine 
regard  for  Calhoun's  knowledge  and  intellect,  saw  no  reason  why  he 


1S2  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

should  withdraw  his  support  from  a  War  Department  measure,  merely 
because  it  was  under  fire  from  the  Crawford  rear  guard  in  the  House. 

Whomever  Monroe  may  have  favored,  it  was  not  Mr.  Crawford.  Craw- 
ford had  been  his  'only  serious  rival'  back  in  1816,  and  now  Monroe's 
failure  to  endorse  his  second  try  'caused  him  openly  to  oppose  the  Presi- 
dent.' As  early  as  1822,  both  men  had  all  but  reached  the  breaking  point, 
with  'rumors  .  .  .  thick'  that  the  President  would  demand  Crawford's 
resignation.  Extant  today  in  Monroe's  papers  are  several  undated  drafts, 
charging  Crawford  with  accusing  the  President  of  being  'anti-Jeffersonian/ 
and  openly  terming  the  ambitious  Georgian  'the  curse  of  the  country.' 76 

Equally  clear  is  the  evidence  that  wherever  Monroe  could  justifiably 
advance  the  interests  of  the  Secretary  of  War,  he  did  so.  It  was,  of  course, 
necessary  and  proper  for  the  President  to  make  official  visits  along  the 
Atlantic  coast,  and  it  was  perfectly  proper  that  the  Secretary  of  War 
should  accompany  him.  So  Calhoun  went  with  the  President  to  Charleston 
and  to  a  Saint  Cecilia  ball,  and  it  was  Calhoun  who  sat  at  the  side  of 
'the  last  of  the  cocked  hats,'  as  the  velvet-lined  Presidential  barge,  manned 
by  sixteen  oarsmen  in  scarlet  waistcoats  and  white  trousers,  bumped  the 
dock  at  Philadelphia.77 

Even  as  official  escort  to  General  Lafayette  in  his  triumphal  tour  of 
America,  Calhoun  stinted  no  energies.*  From  Yorktown  to  'Williamsburgh/ 
from  Norfolk  on  to  Richmond,  the  little  group  proceeded,  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  booming  cannon,  toasts,  cheers,  and  tears.  Calhoun  was 
moved  beyond  his  own  understanding  at  moments  when  the  old  officers 
of  the  Revolution  stumped  forward  in  their  faded  buff  and  blue,  joining 
hands  and  memories  with  their  comrade  of  forty-odd  years  before. 

The  <3ite  of  Richmond  met  the  War  Hawk  of  1812,  as  well  as  the  old 
hero  of  the  Revolution,  at  the  dinner  and  ball  which  climaxed  the  General's 
visit.  The  dinner  itself  would  have  meant  little  to  Calhoun.  He  was  not  the 
kind  of  man  to  be  overtitillated  by  the  spectacle  of  girls  in  a  dimly  lit 
room,  so  'scantily  dressed  that  they  might  as  well  have  had  nothing  on  but 
their  petticoats/  and  his  finicking  appetite  would  have  rebelled  at  the  'great 
saddles  of  mutton,  roast  turkies,'  and  bacon  on  which  the  company  supped 
heavily  and  uncomfortably.  But  it  was  an  undeniable  pleasure  to  have 
as  partner  Eliza  Carrington,  one  of  the  prettiest  and  gayest  of  the  Rich- 
mond belles,  and  to  know  that  the  approving  eyes  of  the  company  were 
fixed  upon  the  old  man  in  buff,  the  young  man  in  black,  and  the.  girl 
between  them.  Eliza,  too,  felt  'the  honor  of  being  attended  by  Mr.  Calhoun 
and  the  Marquis.  ...  I  must  not  forget  to  tell  you/  she  wrote  her  sister, 
'that  little  Lizzy  had  the  honor  of  a  kiss.'  Whether  bestowed  by  the  grave 
Frenchman  or  the  grave  Carolinian,  Miss  Lizzy  neglected  to  say/8 

*  Calhoun's  immediate  Presidential  hopes  had  at  this  time  been  exploded,  but  his 
long-range  goals  were  unaltered. 


THE  MASTER  OF   DUMBARTON   OAKS  153 


11 

Just  when  during  those  harassed,  overtaxed  years  Calhoun  found  time  to 
sit  for  his  portraits  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  his  career.  But  Washington 
had  become  art-conscious;  and  one  man,  one  name,  dominated  the  scene  in 
the  early  eighteen-twenties — Charles  Willson  Peale.  Not  the  greatest  of 
American  painters,  even  in  his  own  estimation,  but  a  living  legend.  He  had 
fought  through  the  Revolution,  a  youthful  Colonel  on  Washington's  staff; 
had  'scrounged'  for  food  and  found  his  men  too  starved  to  eat.  He  lived 
through  the  nightmare  of  Valley  Forge,  painting  miniatures  with  skeleton- 
like  fingers  almost  too  stiff  to  hold  the  brush.  But  the  picture  of  Washing- 
ton's sick,  half-naked  troops,  piling  themselves  into  ice-caked  barges  on  the 
Delaware — 'the  most  hellish  scene  I  have  ever  beheld' — he  once  said,  he 
left  for  others  to  romanticize.79 

Peale  invaded  Washington  in  1819,  white-haired  and  handsome  at 
eighty-four,  the  man  who  had  pitched  horseshoes  with  Washington  and 
written  unsolicited  advice  on  agriculture;  now  commissioned  by  Monroe 
to  paint  official  portraits  of  his  entire  Cabinet.  So  between  searches  for  a 
fourth  wife,  he  eagerly  set  to  work.  'My  late  portraits/  he  wrote  Jefferson, 
'are  much  better  than  those  I  formerly  painted.580 

It  was  then  that  he  painted  Calhoun.  As  a  work  of  art,  this  portrait,  in 
the  'hot  glowing'  colors  which  the  artist  had  learned  from  his  son,  Rem- 
brandt, is  undeniably  attractive.81  A  century  and  a  quarter  later,  the  colors 
remain  fresh  and  bright;  but  as  'a  likeness'  this  thin-faced,  smiling  young 
man,  with  a  curling  bang  splatted  in  the  middle  of  his  forehead,  bears 
little  resemblance  to  the  Calhoun  the  world  has  come  to  know.* 

It  was  Rembrandt  Peale,  Charles  Willson's  son,  who  portrayed  the  real 
Calhoun,  who  dominated  the  Monroe  Cabinet  sessions,  who  in  a  single 
decade  had  fought  and  shouldered  his  way  to  the  forefront  among  Ameri- 
can statesmen.  Peale's  style  bears  little  resemblance  to  his  father's.  Al- 
though Charles  Willson  may  have  learned  color  techniques  from  him, 
Rembrandt  was  utterly  incapable  of  applying  them  himself.  His  sensitive 
and  interpretative  painting  of  Calhoun  in  middle  life,  which  the  sitter 
thought  the  best  likeness  ever  made  of  him,  is  little  more  than  a  monotone. 
What  Peale  sought  was  the  essence  beneath  the  flesh-tones. 

With  Calhoun,  it  was  the  drive,  the  fire,  the  energy,  both  physical  and 
mental,  that  counted.  Peale  captured  it  all,  with  bold  sweeps  of  the  brush 
— the  massive  head  which  later  generations  would  have  called  leonine,  the 
resolute  mouth  and  shadowed  eyes,  restless,  searching,  and  eager,  even  on 
canvas. 

*  Original  in  possession  of  John  C.  Calhoun  Symonds  of  Charleston,  South  Carolina. 


154  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

But  Calhoun  baffled  Peale,  as  he  would  baffle  painters  to  come.  He  tried 
again,  and  the  man  who  looked  out  from  his  new  pencil  sketch  might  have 
been  another  human  being  from  the  Calhoun  of  the  oil  portrait.  Losing 
none  of  the  strength  of  the  earlier  work,  the  rugged  modeling  of  head  and 
jaw,  the  picture  was  an  amazing  forecast  of  the  Calhoun  of  twenty  years 
later.  The  oil  painting  was  all  action;  the  pencil  sketch  was  all  thought. 
However,  John  Wesley  Jarvis,  not  Peale,  brought  to  a  focus  the  moods, 
conflicts,  and  diversities  of  Calhoun.  History  has  dealt  harshly  with  Jarvis. 
'Generally  considered  the  foremost  painter  of  his  time,'  he  has  come  down 
as  a  sort  of  'licensed  buffoon,5  void  of  inspiration,  and  credited  only  with 
his  skill  in  'catching  a  likeness.' 82  He  was  no  colorist.  At  best,  his  work 
was  uneven,  and  at  worst,  suffered  perceptibly  from  his  careless  habits  and 
hasty  production.  Thirty-six  years  old,  financially  and  artistically  at  his 
height,  he  was  earning  a  hundred  dollars  a  day  for  portraits,  of  which  he 
turned  out  five  and  six  in  a  week.  Calhoun  had  no  time  for  the  fifteen-  or 
sixteen-hour  sittings  which  artists  of  the  school  of  Copley  demanded.  He 
could  drop  in  at  Jarvis's  any  time,  pick  his  way  through  a  litter  of 
palettes,  decanters,  broken  tumblers,  books,  easels,  women's  petticoats,  and 
musical  glasses,  tip  the  suds  from  a  shaving  mug,  accept  a  refill  in  any 
liquid  but  water,  and  wait  briefly  while  the  artist  dashed  a  few  final 
strokes  on  the  portrait  of  his  fourth  or  fifth  sitter  for  the  day. 

Dark,  somber,  almost  stern,  Jarvis's  Calhoun  is  a  handsome  study.  In 
striking  contrasts  of  light  and  shadow,  the  artist  stressed  the  Carolinian's 
clear-cut  features,  the  steady  gaze  and  glow  of  the  eyes,  accented  by  their 
deep  sockets,  and  the  fine-drawn  lines  beneath.  He  was  so  thin  that  the 
hollow  temples  and  gaunt  contours  of  jaw  and  cheekbones  were  clear 
beneath  his  skin;  already  there  was  a  hint  of  how  he  looked  when  age 
and  illness  had  had  their  way  with  him. 

Jarvis  was  stirred  by  the  complexities  of  the  man  before  him.  And  he 
caught  them  in  the  portrait:  the  strength  that  all  knew,  and  the  gentleness 
that  only  Calhoun's  family  knew.  He  sensed  the  tension  beneath  the  calm, 
the  Puritan  austerity,  underlying  the  Southern  grace.  Here  was  a  man  in 
whose  personality  the  conflicts  and  diversities  of  the  whole  South  could  re- 
solve themselves.  Aristocrat  and  Highlander  had  fused  their  differences. 


12 

Meanwhile,  Destiny  had  taken  a  hand  in  the  Presidential  race — and  elimi- 
nated a  candidate.  Early  in  September,  1823,  the  jovial  and  confident 
Crawford  had  left  the  capital  for  a  vacation.  A  few  days  later,  Ms  massive 
figure  hidden  under  a  sheet  from  the  eyes  of  curious  onlookers,  was  carried 
into  Senator  James  Barbour's  house  in  Virginia.  It  was  a  living  shell  of  a 
man  that  lay  there,  a  creature  that  breathed  and  sighed,  but  saw  and 


X  THE  MASTER  OF  DUMBARTON   OAKS  155 

heard  and  spoke  nothing.  A  stroke  and  an  overdose  of  calomel,  so  it  was 
said,  had  wrought  the  ruin  of  the  strapping  Crawford.  He  was  'paralyzed 
in  every  limb.' 8S 

Was  his  mind  gone,  too?  This  was  the  question  that  tortured  his  friends 
through  the  days  of  waiting.  But  in  that  motionless  form  a  man  still  lived 
and  ambition  still  burned.  He  was  a  Presidential  candidate  still,  and  the 
first  words  that  he  muttered,  days  later,  were  to  fight  on,  for  he  would 
never  give  up.  So  the  Crawford  press  assembled  and  reported  him  recover- 
ing from  severe  illness,  and  his  friends  got  together  and  worked  out  ways 
of  making  the  news  stories  seem  true.  Rumors  that  he  was  dying  aroused 
his  ire;  he  had  himself  carried  to  his  carriage,  bolstered  with  pillows,  and 
driven  through  the  streets  of  Washington.  Eventually  he  even  dragged  him- 
self around  his  house  and  attended  Cabinet  meetings,  led  down  the  cor- 
riders  like  a  child.8* 

It  was  no  use.  On  the  night  of  February  24,  1824,  to  the  jeers  of  the 
anti-Crawford  Representatives  and  their  friends,  a  'last  hope'  meeting  was 
held.  Slowly,  by  two  and  threes,  the  caucus  members  straggled  in.  From 
the  jammed  gallery  came  cries  of  'Adjourn,  adjourn,'  and  in  alarm  someone 
moved  to  do  so.  The  red  hair  of  a  New  York  boss  named  Martin  Van 
Buren  glowed  in  the  lamplight;  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  forced  down 
the  abortive  motion.  Eventually  sixty-six  members  arrived  and  hastily 
went  through  the  form  of  nominating  Crawford  for  President  and  Swiss- 
born  Albert  Gallatin  for  Vice-President.  Sixty-four  cast  their  ballots  for 
Crawford;  but  significantly,  one  hundred  and  fifty-two  party  members  had 
remained  away.85  More  significant  still,  this  was  the  death-gasp  of  the 
caucus  system  of  nominations. 


13 

The  fall  of  the  Crawford  banner  did  nothing  to  raise  the  tattered  flag  of 
Calhoun.  One  week  earlier  his  hopes  had  been  dashed  as  conclusively  as 
those  of  his  rival.  Once  again  it  was  Pennsylvania  which  was  to  work  his 
downfall.  Again  the  state  convention  was  assembling.  Delegates  were  bom- 
barded with  instructions,  which  almost  without  exception  favored  Jackson. 
Lewis  had  done  his  work  well.  But  Calhoun  counted  on  Philadelphia,  and 
there  he  had  a  powerful  campaign  manager  in  the  future  Vice-President, 
George  M.  Dallas.  On  February  18,  1824,  had  come  a  meeting  of  the  city 
ward  leaders.  Dallas  had  taken  the  floor.  His  admiration  for  Mr.  Calhoun 
was  well  known,  he  said,  but  he  could  not  resist  the  popular  will.  The  cause 
of  the  nation  was  'at  stake.'  The  cry  was  for  'a  single  illustrious  individual,' 
Andrew  Jackson  of  Tennessee!  And  with  a  roar  the  leaders  of  Philadelphia 
went  on  record  for  'Old  Hickory.' w 

The  Calhoun  Presidential  campaign  was  over.  For  the  first  time  in  his 


1S6  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

forty-two  years  the  South  Carolinian  had  met  defeat.  The  taste  was  bitter. 
'Taking  the  United  States  together/  he  was  convinced,  'we  never  had  a 
more  favorable  prospect  than  the  day  we  lost  the  state/ 8T 

Probably  only  Floride  knew  how  much  his  defeat  hurt  him,  but  his 
despondency  was  not  lost  upon  even  his  casual  friends.  Temporarily  he 
withdrew  from  society  to  restore  his  depleted  energies,  remaining  secluded 
in  'his  house  on  the  hills  beyond  Georgetown.  ...  He  does  not  look  well/ 
Margaret  Bayard  Smith  observed,  'and  feels  very  deeply  the  disappoint- 
ment of  his  ambition.'  **  Little  sympathy  was  wasted  upon  him.  Many  saw 
in  him  the  material  for  a  future  President;  but  he  was  young  yet;  he 
could  wait  ,  .  .* 


14 

In  May,  his  old  friend,  Professor  Silliman,  arrived  from  Yale.  Calhoun 
received  him  with  'great  cordiality/  and  over  the  dinner  table  showed  that 
his  defeat  had  not  diminished  the  energy  and  contagious  enthusiasm  that 
had  won  him  so  ardent  a  following.  'He  explained  ...  his  plans  for  in- 
ternal improvement/  Silliman  recorded,  'which  were  extensive  and  detailed, 
and  included  not  only  a  ship-canal  between  Lakes  Superior  and  Huron 
.  .  .  but  even  a  cut  across  the  neck  of  Cape  Cod,  thus  uniting  Buzzard's 
Bay  with  Massachusetts  .  .  .  and  saving  a  dangerous  navigation  around 
the  Cape.'80 

Calhoun's  retirement  was  brief.  He  was  too  keyed  to  the  political  tempo 
of  the  times.  Spring  had  scarcely  warmed  into  summer  before  the  astute 
John  Quincy  Adams  had  detected  Calhoun's  'game  now  is  to  unite  Jack- 
son's supporters  and  mine  upon  him  for  Vice-President.  Look  out  for 
breakers.' 91 

Calhoun's  interest  in  the  Vice-Presidency,  as  such,  was  listless.  He  cared 
'nothing'  about  it,  he  claimed,  but  the  fire  of  ambition  within  him  would 
smoulder  to  the  end  of  his  days.  Nothing  was  left  for  him  now  but  tor- 
tuous speculations  as  to  whether  the  star  of  his  political  destiny  lay  with 
Adams  or  Jackson.  Necessity  compelled  a  compromise.  The  Vice-Presi- 
dency was  a  mere  stepping  stone;  the  future  was  what  counted.  The  dif- 
ficulty lay  in  convincing  New  Englanders  that  he  was  for  Adams  and 
Westerners  that  he  favored  Jackson.  One  New  Englander  upon  whom  all 
his  efforts  were  wasted  was  the  canny  Adams,  who  watched  his  struggles 
with  sardonic  amusement.  'Under-hand'  was  his  one-word  summary  of 
them. 

But  if  Calhoun,  his  ambition  fiercely  whetted  by  disappointment,  had 
descended  to  the  wiles  of  the  professional  politician  in  pursuit  of  his  step- 
ping stone,  he  was  not  alone.  Washington  en  masse  had  descended  into  an 
orgy  of  dodges  and  deals  and  double-talk,  the  mere  summary  of  which 


X  THE  MASTER  OF  DUMBARTON   OAKS  1ST 

would  fill  a  book.  Already  it  was  obvious  that  the  election  would  be  thrown 
into  the  House,  with  the  winnings  going  to  him  who  could  gather  the 
votes  of  the  one  who  would  be  eliminated. 

Clay  was  out — a  poor  fourth.  Crawford  straggled  in  the  rear.  The  race 
had  narrowed  down  to  Adams  and  Jackson,  with  Jackson  in  the  lead. 
Would  Jackson  coalesce  with  Crawford?  He  would  'support  the  deviP  first. 
A  Clay  emissary  approached  the  embattled  General  and  retreated  with  un- 
military  haste.  Jackson  would  'see  the  earth  swallow  him  up'  before  he 
would  fraternize  with  Henry  Clay.92 

The  House  would  decide.  And  Henry  Clay  controlled  the  House. 

Jackson  had  the  votes.  But  his  weak  link  was  Congressman  Stephen  Van 
Rensselaer  of  New  York.  In  a  delegation  virtually  halved  between  Adams 
and  Jackson  supporters,  old  Mr.  Van  Rensselaer  was  uncertain.  He  had 
never  been  certain  of  anything  in  his  life.  Now  he  was  senile  and  com-  ' 
pletely  under  the  dominance  of  his  wife.  Had  he  read  Humboldt's  latest 
book?  someone  asked. 

'I — I — really  am  not  sure.'  Turning  to  his  wife:  'Have  I  ever  read 
Humboldt's  work,  my  dear?' 

She  frowned  angrily.  'Certainly,  you  know  you  have  read  it.' 93 

However,  on  that  snow-swept  election  day  of  1824,  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer 
passed  her  husband  no  note  of  instructions.  He  sat  taut,  head  bowed, 
visibly  sweating.  Upon  his  vote  turned  that  of  New  York;  upon  the  vote 
of  New  York  turned  the  entire  election.  Thirteen  states  were  needed  for 
a  majority,  and  New  York  was  the  thirteenth  state.  His  was  the  choice; 
his  the  responsibility.  God  help  him,  what  should  he  do! 

There  were  plenty  with  answers.  Van  Buren  hovered  about  his  chair. 
'Three  times  in  the  course  of  an  hour'  Van  Rensselaer  gave  'his  word  of 
honor  not  to  vote  for  Mr.  Adams.3  Now  there  were  only  five  minutes  left. 

Someone  saw  Henry  Clay  arise.  Smiling  and  confident,  as  always,  he 
strolled  down  the  aisle.  He  paused  before  Van  Rensselaer,  bent  and  whis- 
pered a  few  words  into  the  old  man's  ear.  A  moment  later,  he  resumed  his 
seat  as  the  vote-counting  started.  Van  Rensselaer  sat  slumped,  his  eyes 
closed. 

It  was  God  with  whom  Van  Rensselaer  credited  his  decision.  He  prayed 
for  divine  aid.  Opening  his  eyes,  he  saw  a  discarded  ballot  within  reach  on 
the  floor.  He  picked  it  up.  On  it  was  the  name  of  John  Quincy  Adams.  God 
had  left  His  answer. 

It  was  all  over.  Appalled  by  the  magnitude  of  what  he  had  done,  Van 
Rensselaer  staggered  up,  stumbled  out,  crying,  'Forgive  me.' 

'Ask  your  own  conscience,  General,  not  me,'  said  a  disgusted  young 
follower,  turning  away.94 

'The  people,'  said  Humphrey  Cobb,  'have  been  tricked  out  of  their 
choice.' 

'Gentlemen,'  John  Randolph  said,  'the  cards  were  stacked!'  * 


158  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 


15 

John  Quincy  Adams  received  the  news  of  his  election  shaking,  the  sweat 
pouring  down  his  face.  He  could  scarcely  stand  or  speak,  and  for  a  moment 
it  was  actually  thought  that  he  would  decline.96  The  Congressional  gal- 
leries had  broken  into  hisses  at  the  news.  Only  the  Negroes  hurrahed  his 
elevation,  and  in  the  Washington  slums  only  the  pelting  snow  prevented  a 
hostile  mass  demonstration,  with  the  rotund  figure  of  the  President-elect 
strung  up  in  effigy. 

To  General  Van  Rensselaer,  God  may  have  seemed  responsible  for  the 
day's  outcome,  but  the  cynical  citizenry  of  Washington  attributed  events 
to  forces  something  less  than  divine.  Mrs.  Smith  could  scarcely  restrain  her 
wrath  that  evening  at  the  spectacle  of  Speaker  Clay,  'walking  about  with 
...  a  smiling  face  and  a  fashionable  belle  on  each  arm  ...  as  proud  and 
happy  as  if  he  had  done  a  noble  action.'  Occasionally  someone  would  toss 
a  glance  at  the  shrinking  figure  of  the  New  Englander,  and  remark:  There 
goes  our  "Clay  President."  ' 9T 


16 

'» 

The  people  had  been  defrauded  of  their  choice.  This  was  the  sentiment 
<of  the  American  press.  'The  Warrior,  the  Hero,  the  Statesman,  and  Re- 
publican/ declared  Crawford's  Washington  Gazette,  'was  discarded  for  the 
cold-blooded  calculator,  the  heavy  diplomatist,  the  reviler  of  Jefferson 
...  the  haughty,  unrelenting  aristocrat.'  Public  opinion  had  spoken.98 

History  has  thoroughly  discredited  the  bargain  and  corruption'  yarn. 
Two  months  before  the  count,  Clay  had  revealed  that  he  would  throw 
his  support  to  Adams.  Under  the  Constitution  the  House  was  unhampered; 
it  had  even  been  thought  that  in  case  of  a  deadlock  'Mr.  Calhoun'  might 
'come  in.'  Nevertheless,  both  in  popular  and  electoral  votes,  Jackson  was 
the  winner.  Had  Clay  thrown  the  election  to  him  and  then  accepted  the 
State  Department,  it  is  doubtful  that  there  would  have  been  anything  ap- 
proaching such  widespread  criticism. 

No  'bargain'  had  been  made,  but  Calhoun,  along  with  Jackson  and  many 
others,  believed  it  had,  a  fact  which  throws  a  more  kindly  light  on  his 
future  conduct  if  not  on  his  intelligence.  To  a  personal  friend  he  wrote 
bitterly  of  'the  wicked  conspirecy  which  brought  Mr.  Adams  .  .  .  into 
power,' "  and  thus  convinced,  could  find  justification  for  the  right-about- 
face  which  his  political  instincts  warned  him  would  be  essential  to  his 
future. 

From  an  Adams  popularly  elected,  Calhoun  would  have  had  as  much  to 


X  THE  MASTER  OF   DUMBARTON   OAKS  159 

gain  as  from  the  elevation  of  Jackson.  But  an  Adams  elected  in  defiance 
of  popular  will  would  not  only  have  committed  political  suicide,  but 
would  have  dragged  his  whole  following  down  with  him.  John  Calhoun  had 
no  desire  to  have  his  prospects  tainted.  Not  the  'bargain/  so  much  as  the 
appearance  of  the  bargain,  was  what  mattered. 

So  Calhoun  served  notice.  'If  Mr.  Clay  should  be  appointed  Secretary  of 
State,  a  determined  opposition  to  the  Administration  would  be  organized 
from  the  outset;  the  opposition  would  use  the  name  of  General  Jackson.' 
Delicately  he  outlined  the  choice  of  public  officials  that  would  allay  popular 
suspicion:  for  Secretary  of  State,  Joel  Poinsett;  Treasury,  Langdon  Cheves; 
War,  John  MacLean;  Navy,  Southard.100 

Adams  received  the  messages  in  the  spirit  in  which  they  were  sent.  His 
diagnosis  was  accurate:  'It  is  to  bring  in  General  Jackson  as  the  next 
President  under  the  auspices  of  Calhoun.  To  this  end  the  Administration 
must  be  rendered  unpopular  and  odious.  ...  I  am  at  least  forewarned.5 101 

Meanwhile,  Calhoun  had  safely  achieved  his  'stepping  stone.'  On  March 
4,  1825,  in  the  crowded  Senate  Chamber,  Calhoun  arose  and  spoke  a  few 
words.  He  had  been  'called  to  the  Vice  Presidency,'  he  said,  'by  the  voice 
of  my  fellow-citizens.'  He  promised  a  'rigid  impartiality'  in  all  the  questions 
that  would  confront  him.  'I  am  without  experience,'  he  concluded,  'and 
must  often  throw  myself  on  your  indulgence.' 102 


XI 

Mr.  Vice-President  Calhoun 


PERHAPS  NO  AMERICAN  ever  filled  the  office  of  Vice-President  with  more 
dignity,  poise,  and  courtesy  than  John  C.  Calhoun,  but  it  is  certain  that  no 
man  ever  more  successfully  tortured  two  Presidential  administrations  than 
he.  In  a  letter  to  J.  G.  Swift,  dated  February,  1826,  he  warned  that  if  he 
and  his  friends  did  not  openly  support  Adams,  they  would  be  denounced  as 
in  opposition.  We  must  pledge  support  to  Mr.  Adams's  re-election,  and 
recommend  all  of  those  principles  for  which  we  have  ever  contended/ l  Yet 
almost  simultaneously  he  stated  that  the  Adams  Administration,  'because 
of  the  way  it  came  to  power  .  .  .  must  be  defeated  at  all  hazards,  regard- 
less of  its  measures.' 2  In  such  diversity  of  opinion  his  opponents  could 
readily  scent  political  malice;  actually  Calhoun  was  not  interested  in  the 
career  of  John  Quincy  Adams  one  way  or  another,  but  he  was  extremely 
interested  in  his  own.  To  fulfill  his  ambitions  he  must  take  a  middle  course, 
drawing  support  from  both  the  warring  Adams  and  Jackson  forces. 

That  he  was  deep  in  intrigue  many  suspected.  His  very  presence  as 
presiding  officer  was  proof.3  Since  the  days  of  Aaron  Burr,  Vice-Presidents 
had  frequently  not  even  come  to  Washington  during  the  Congressional 
sessions,  much  less  made  themselves  the  outstanding  personalities  .of  the 
Capitol.  Calhoun  might  protest  that  he  could  not  accept  his  pay  without 
fulfilling  the  duties  of  his  office;  but  his  driving  energies  were  too  well 
known  for  that  explanation  to  satisfy.  It  was  obvious  that  he  was  keeping 
himself  before  the  country  to  increase  his  popularity.  A  spectacular  quality 
about  him  attracted  the  young  men  who  visited  Washington,  and  his  care- 
ful cultivation  of  their  admiring  friendship  was  commented  upon.4  Here, 
indeed,  was  a  man  sowing  the  seeds  for  a  political  future.  To  Josiah  Quincy 
there  seemed  something  defiant  in  the  very  way  Calhoun  threw  back  his 
thick,  dark  hair.  Quincy  quoted  what  the  Striking-looking  man'  of  forty- 
four  had  said  to  him:  'You  will  see,  from  what  I  have  told  you,  that  the 
interests  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  North  and  South  are  identical/ 5 

There  was  nothing  remarkable  in  this  statement.  From  Washington's  day 
on,  the  Capital  city  had  acknowledged  a  government  of  gentlemen— in 
fact,  one  of,  by,  and  for  gentlemen.  Tacitly  government  was  for  the  people, 
but  the  young  men  who  had  spoken  for  the  frontier  masses  in  1812  were 


XI  MR.  VICE-PRESIDENT   CALHOUN  161 

representing  the  classes  by  1825.  Langdon  Cheves,  for  example,  had  come 
far  from  his  back-country  days  as  an  apprentice  plowboy.  Bald  and  be- 
spectacled, ruddy  and  plump  from  enjoyment  of  both  food  and  liquor,  he 
was  serving  as  president  of  that  'capitalistic  monster/  the  Bank  of  the 
United  States.6 

Of  the  fiery  young  War  Hawks,  who  had  trumpeted  America  into  battle 
fourteen  years  before,  few  remained  in  Congressional  service.  Clay  was  at 
the  State  Department.  Tuberculosis  had  finally  laid  brilliant  William 
Lowndes  in  Ms  grave.  But  Calhoun,  gazing  down  from  the  Vice-Presi- 
dential platform,  could  see  familiar  faces  and  faces  that  would  become 
familiar,  faces  of  men  who  would  dominate  the  nation's  history  for  the 
next  twenty-five  years.  By  1827,  three  future  Presidents  sat  before  him 
in  the  Senate  Chamber.  Senator  Andrew  Jackson  had  gone  growling  back 
to  Tennessee  to  sharpen  his  claws  for  bigger  game;  but  the  military  chief- 
tain's place  was  stolidly  filled  by  the  horse-faced  William  Henry  Harrison, 
hero  of  Tippecanoe.  Tyler,  too,  sat  nearby,  poetic,  musical,  the  aristocrat 
revealed  in  every  line  of  his  slim  body.  He  would  be  the  last  of  the  old 
Virginia  Dynasty  to  reach  the  Presidency.  No  aristocrat,  but  the  most 
eligible  widower  in  Washington  was  the  'yellow-haired  laddie,5  Martin  Van 
Buren,  a  chunky  young  Dutchman  from  upstate  New  York,  whose  frank 
smile  contrasted  with  shrewd,  oversuspicious  eyes.7  He  had  already  shown 
his  talents  in  the  management  of  Crawford's  campaign,  and  though  not 
yet  known  as  'The  Little  Magician  of  Kinderhook,'  his  bag  of  tricks  was 
being  rapidly  replenished  for  the  next  venture. 

From  Missouri  came  the  burly,  black-haired  Thomas  Hart  Benton,  gaz- 
ing pompously  over  piles  of  books  and  papers  heaped  upon  his  desk.  He 
and  Calhoun  were  now  on  good  terms,  but  the  utter  dissimilarity  of  their 
minds  and  temperaments  would  have  prevented  real  intimacy,  even  had 
politics  not  thrown  them  into  opposite  camps.  Calhoun  worked  from  within ; 
Benton,  from  without.  Calhoun  reasoned;  Benton  read.  In  later  days,  when 
the  two  men  were  privately  terming  each  other  'humbugs,'  Calhoun  once 
remarked,  with  a  personal  bitterness  rare  in  him,  that  Benton  would  have 
made  a  fortune  as  a  writer  of  quack  medicine  advertisements.8  In  a  later 
century,  he  would  have  been  the  ideal  'expert'  on  a  quiz  program.  He  made 
up  for  his  lack  of  originality  by  packing  his  mind  with  thousands  of  facts, 
which  he  poured  forth  upon  men  of  far  greater  mental  power.9  In  later 
years,  if  Calhoun,  always  indifferent  to  minor  details,  forgot  a  name  or  a 
date,  Benton  would  dispatch  a  page  for  some  obscure  volume  in  the  Con- 
gressional Library,  open  it  to  the  exact  chapter  and  page,  copy  out  the  in- 
formation and  send  it  to  the  erring  Senator  with  his  cpmpliments.  From 
such  triumphs  he  achieved  a  disproportionate  satisfaction.  He  was  over- 
bearing, bombastic,  sometimes  tedious  and  dull,  yet  with  magnificent  quali- 
ties of  loyalty  and  friendship  which  his  ex-dueling  opponent,  Andrew  Jack- 
son, would  one  day  appreciate.  Benton's  learning  had  given  him  a  solid 


162  JOHN   C.   CALHOXJN 

grasp  of  the  great  financial  issues  of  the  day,  and  in  his  appreciation  of  the 
vast  and  broadening  Union,  his  vision  was  not  even  exceeded  by  Calhoun's. 
For  all  his  faults,  he  had  sufficient  elements  of  true  greatness  to  attain  a 
place  in  history  just  below  Calhoun,  Webster,  and  Clay. 

Calhoun  himself  had  helped  South  Carolina  send  the  boyish-looking 
Robert  Young  Hayne  to  Congress.  Only  Henry  Clay  was  more  dashing 
than  this  tall,  fair-haired  man,  with  his  petulant  mouth  and  laughing  gray 
eyes.  There  was  strength  as  well  as  impetuosity  in  Hayne ;  but  not  yet  had 
the  lightning  passed  between  him  and  the  swarthy,  dreaming  New  Eng- 
lander  who  sat  nearby,  so  lost  in  his  thoughts  that  someone  had  to  poke 
him  before  he  could  rouse  himself  to  answer  to  his  name  on  a  roll-call.10 

Daniel  Webster,  his  voice  like  an  organ,  his  face  glowing  like  a  'bronze 
statue/  and  his  eyes  deep-set  beneath  a  majestic  domed  forehead,  al- 
ready deserved  the  description  of  'god-like.' u  Not  yet  was  he  in  'the  full 
maturity  of  his  wonderful  powers,'  but  his  vivid  imagination  was  already 
at  work,  skillfully  identifying  the  interests  of  the  Northern  industrialists 
with  patriotism  and  liberty.  His  eloquence  was  a  refreshing  tonic  to  the 
Vice-President,  who  spent  hours  of  boredom  listening  to  slow-moving 
debates  which  he  could  easily  have  turned  into  action  had  he  been  on  the 
floor.12  For  Webster,  Calhoun  felt  keen  professional  admiration,  and  once 
congratulated  a  friend  upon  hearing  the  Massachusetts  man  'in  one  of  his 
grandest  moods.' 1S 

Yet  not  even  Webster  'attracted  the  most  attention.'  A  jingle  of  silver 
spurs  on  the  floor,  the  padded  footsteps  of  a  slinking  hound — and  the 
galleries  began  to  fill.14  The  spectral  figure  of  Calhoun's  old  adversary  of 
1812,  John  Randolph  of  Roanoke,  most  fantastic  personality  in  a  fan- 
tastic era,  was  striding  down  the  aisle,  whip  in  hand.  He  had  been  rapidly 
'dying,  sir,  dying,'  for  the  last  fifteen  years,  but  he  was  still  far  more  alive 
than  his  enemies  could  have  wished.  Drink,  drugs,  and  disease  had  had  their 
way  with  him,  however,  and  a  friend  described  him  as  'more  like  a  dis- 
embodied spirit  than  a  man  adequately  clothed  in  flesh  and  blood.' 15  His 
-costume  was  striking:  he  varied  from  blue  riding  coat  and  buckskin 
breeches  to  'a  full  suit  of  heavy,  drab-colored  English  broadcloth,  the 
high  rolling  collar  .  .  .  almost  concealing  his  head,'  and  the  skirts  swing- 
ing about  the  white  leather  tops  of  his  boots.  Sometimes  he  wore  a  red 
hunting  shirt,  or  an  overcoat  which  dragged  behind  him  along  the  carpet, 
and  once  he  wore  six  or  seven  overcoats,  which  he  peeled  off,  one  by  one, 
upon  arrival,  tossing  them  in  a  heap  on  the  floor.16  This  demonstration  gave 
birth  to  a  newspaper  story  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  dressing  and  un- 
dressing himself  on  the  floor  of  the  Senate. 

That  he  was  intoxicated  by  his  own  rhetoric  is  beyond  doubt.  He  might 
start  one  of  his  harangues  at  four  in  the  afternoon  and  continue  unabated 
until  ten,  the  Chamber  gradually  emptying  as  hunger  drew  off  the  Senators. 
Calhoun  alone  retained  his  seat,  seldom  even  changing  his  position.17  Mean- 


XI          MR.   VICE-PRESIDENT  CALHOUN  163 

while,  Randolph  leaped  from  subject  to  subject,  and  in  thirty  minutes 
might  discuss  the  superiority  of  the  Church  of  England  to  the  Episcopal 
Church  of  America,  the  'revolting  racial  issue'  in  Othello,  the  military 
mistakes  of  William  the  Conqueror,  the  'adulterous  intercourse  between  the 
Dowager  Princess  of  Wales  and  the  Earl  of  Bute/  and  a  song  on  the  men 
of  Kent,  which  he  said  he  would  have  given  five  thousand  pounds  to  have 
written. 

Viewed  from  a  distance,  erect,  black-haired,  'a  strange  fire  in  his  swarthy 
face/  he  still  gave  his  fantastic  illusion  of  youth.  His  flashing  eyes,  long, 
quivering  forefinger,  and  silvery  voice,  'fine  as  the  treble  of  a  violin/  had 
lost  none  of  their  witchery,  none  of  their  power.18  Calhoun  himself  was  not 
immune,  characterizing  him  as  'a  man  of  remarkable  genius/  with  'wisdom 
worthy  of  a  Baker  and  wit  that  would  not  discredit  a  Sheridan/19  But 
the  two  men  were  never  intimate.  Indeed,  in  one  of  his  outbursts  Randolph 
addressed  Calhoun  as  'Mr.  Vice-President,  and  would-be  Mr.  President 
of  the  United  States,  which  God  in  his  infinite  mercy  prevent.'  Calhoun 
remained  utterly  impassive  and  abstracted,  'without  once  noticing  the 
indecorum  to  himself  or  others.' 20  The  Vice-President  'actually  made  love 
to  me/  Randolph  once  chortled,  after  a  ride  home  in  Calhoun's  coach.  And 
despite  his  long  suspicion  of  the  Vice-President's  early  nationalism,  even 
Randolph  finally  conceded  that  he  was  'a  strong  man  .  .  .  armed  in 
mail.'  * 

They  had  sufficient  mutual  regard  to  join  the  same  'mess'  for  at  least 
one  Congressional  session,  giving  Calhoun  ample  opportunity  to  study  the 
Virginian's  peculiarities.  Randolph's  tortured,  sleepless  nights,  when  he 
would  walk  up  and  down  the  hallways  rapping  at  doors  and  submitting 
any  man  who  happened  to  be  awake  to  a  night-long  visit,22  could  not  have 
been  unknown  to  Calhoun,  who  attributed  this  nervous  excitability  to  phys- 
ical causes,  and  years  afterward  declared  that  he  had  never  suspected 
insanity  in  Randolph  'by  word  or  act.'  * 


This  view  was  particularly  annoying  to  President  John  Quincy  Adams,  who 
sat  powerless  in  the  White  House,  fuming  under  Randolph's  tongue-lash- 
ings. Not  only  had  Calhoun  declined  to  call  Randolph  to  order  in  the 
Senate;  he  had  exhibited  'the  most  perfect  indifference  to  whatever  was 
said,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent.'  His  failure  to  appoint  Administration  men 
to  committees  had  been  so  marked  that  Randolph  himself  pushed  through 
a  motion,  stripping  the  Vice-President  of  his  appointing  power  by  a  vote 
of  40  to  2;  and  of  his  supervision  over  the  Senate  journal,  37  to  7!  *  (In 
Calhoun's  defense,  however,  even  the  President  had  to  admit  that  the 
majority  of  Senate  talent  was  on  the  opposition  side.)  But  worst  of  all, 


164  JOHN  C.  CALHOUN 

with  Adam's  popularity  dropping  more  rapidly  each  day,  his  Vice-Presi- 
dent appeared  to  have  found  refuge  on  the  bandwagon  of  Andrew  Jack- 
son! 

Adams's  patience  snapped.  He  took  his  case  to  the  newspapers,  and 
through  the  spring  and  summer  of  1826  the  public  was  treated  to  the 
spectacle  of  the  President  and  the  Vice-President  of  the  United  States, 
under  the  pseudonyms  of  'Patrick  Henry'  and  'Onslow/  hurling  charges  of 
'despotism'  and  'anarchy'  at  each  other.  Though  each  man  took  ostensibly 
high  ground,  Calhoun  saw  through  the  attack  immediately,  and  commented 
that  whether  its  purpose  was  to  'arrive  at  truth  ...  or  political  or  per- 
sonal hostility,  the  American  people  must  judge.'  ** 

The  debate  lasted  for  weeks,  full  of  sound  and  fury  and  signifying  very 
little.  It  gave  Calhoun  an  opportunity  to  deal  in  logical  abstractions,  and 
he  did  so  with  a  zest  that  boded  little  good  for  the  object  of  his  attack.  He 
quickly  thrust  aside  Adams's  contention  that  'to  preside'  implied  the 
power  to  call  to  order,  and  turned  the  debate  into  a  discussion  of  inherent 
and  delegated  powers.  House  rules  specifically  granted  such  power  to  the 
presiding  officer,  but  Senate  regulations  reserved  the  authority  to  the 
members  themselves.  All  the  Vice-President  could  do  was  to  order  ques- 
tionable words  'taken  down.'  'I  trust  that  it  will  never  be  the  ambition  of 
him  who  occupys  this  chair  to  enlarge  its  powers,' 2e  said  Calhoun,  who 
gracefully  accepted  the  very  powers  in  question  a  year  later  by  vote  of 
the  Senate. 

He  strove  to  put  his  theories  into  practice.  It  is  true  that  at  least  once 
he  broke  his  own  rule  by  ordering  an  overtalkative  Senator  to -take  his  seat, 
and  when  disobeyed  wrathfully  broke  'a  harmless  seal  frame  which  stood 
near  him.'  It  is  true  that  he  allowed  Randolph  to  speak  in  a  'strain  of 
calumny  and  abuse/  which  culminated  in  nothing  less  than  the  notorious 
Clay-Randolph  duel.  But  as  if  warned  by  this  incident,  Calhoun  watched 
the  irascible  Virginian  thereafter,  and  once  ordered  him  to  take  his  seat, 
'until  the  Chair  decides.  .  .  .  The  Chair  directs  the  Senator  from  Alabama 
to  reduce  the  words  to  writing.' 

'Abruptly/  King  of  Alabama  retorted  that  he  'would  not.'  Calhoun,  'pale 
with  agitation/ 'rose,  struck  his  hand  against  the  desk  and  shouted:  'The 
Chair  orders  the  Senator  from  Alabama  to  reduce  the  words  to  writing.' 
Both  he  and  Randolph  were  'intensely  excited/  according  to  Martin  Van 
Buren,27  but  King  was  stubborn  and  unmoved. 

Saucily  Randolph  chortled:  'I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  speaking  dis- 
respectfully of  Nero  .  .  .  and  the  rest  of  the  host  of  worthies  .  .  .  when 
I  see  fit.'  All  Calhoun  could  do  was  to  arise  and  express  'his  deep  regret 
that  any  occurence  had  taken  place  .  .  .  calculated  to  destroy  harmony.' 
He  could  only  follow  the  rules  as  written,  but  'would  ever  show  firmness 
in  exercising  those  powers  that  were  vested  in  the  chair.'  * 


XI          MR.  VICE-PRESIDENT   CA1HOUN  165 


Even  outside  the  presiding  officer's  seat,  Calhoun  had  no  time  for  relaxa- 
tion. At  home  his  rapidly  increasing  family  was  harassed  with  childhood 
epidemics  and  accidents.  Too  bogged  down  by  domestic  disasters  to  take  a 
summer  vacation  trip  south,  Calhoun  wrote  his  mother-in-law  details  of 
the  children's  symptoms,  concluding:  Tatrick  when  he  got  hurt  wished 
for  wings  that  he  might  fly  to  you  to  nurse  him/  * 

On  the  political  front  Calhoun  was  more  and  more  finding  himself  'an 
object  of  bitter  party  attacks.7  In  the  winter  of  1827  the  storm  broke.  'A 
deep  laid  conspericy  to  destroy  for  ever  my  reputation  .  .  .  burst  on  me,' 
he  wrote.  'An  artful  charge  of  participating  in  the  profits  of  the  Mix's 
contract  [while  Secretary  of  War]  was  got  up,  and  published.  ...  I  ... 
saw  the  assassin  aim  and  determined  to  repel  it  ...  by  an  appeal  to  the 
House,  .  .  .  demanding  an  investigation.  It  was  granted,  but  the  chair,  for- 
getting the  first  principles  of  justice,  constituted  the  Committee  ...  of 
hostile  materials.  They  have  been  about  everything  except  that  for  which 
the  Committee  was  created,  but  .  .  .  they  will  prove  my  best  friends,  for 
it  will  be  seen,  that  in  whatever  condition  I  found  the  Department  .  .  . 
I  left  it  in  .  .  .  perfect  condition, JSO 

With  the  confidence  of  a  clear  conscience,  he  bore  his  'inquisition'  for 
forty  days,  emerging  with  an  acquittal  so  complete  that  never  again, 
throughout  his  whole  career,  was  his  personal  character  questioned.  The 
seriousness  with  which  Calhoun  took  this  affair,  refusing  to  preside  over 
the  Senate  until  cleared  of  the  charges,  struck  the  political  journals  as 
ridiculous.  Niles'  Register  conceded  that  Calhoun  was  utterly  'incapable  of 
any  such  participation,'  and  chided  the  Vice-President  for  submitting  to  his 
feelings.  If  every  government  official  attacked  in  the  press  were  to  ex- 
hibit such  personal  touchiness  the  House  would  have  nothing  more  to  do 
but  to  track  down  foolish  and  unbelievable  charges.81 

Calhoun  was  learning  fast  in  his  new  position.  He  was  entangled  in  a 
maze  of  politics,  of  plots  and  counter-plots,  of  stolen  letters — and  always 
in  the  background  was  Crawford;  Crawford  trying  to  break  both  Calhoun's 
and  Monroe's  friendship  with  Andrew  Jackson.82  Only  too  well  did  the 
Carolinian  know  now  that  ambition  and  popularity  must  be  paid  for  in 
happiness  and  peace  of  mind.  Yet  even  had  he  been  freed  from  routine 
political  irritations,  Calhoun  would  never  really  know  relaxation  and  calm 
again.  For  during  those  hours  on  the  Vice-Presidential  platform,  one  of  the 
tremendous  mental  revolutions,  which  are  the  most  dramatic  experiences 
life  can  offer  to  the  man  of  thought,  had  been  taking  place  in  his  brain.  In 
a  final  flash  of  realization,  clear  as  the  shafts  of  sunlight  from  the  skylight 


166  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

dome  falling  across  his  face,  he  saw  at  last  that  the  broadening  Union 
which  he  loved  carried  within  itself  the  seeds  of  another  slave  system,  a 
system  which  would  chain  the  agricultural  sections  of  the  country  in 
colonial  dependency  on  the  industrial  North.  The  battle  lines  of  his  future 
were  being  drawn. 


The  man,  the  force  that  drove  Calhoun  into  his  realizations  was  none  other 
than  John  Randolph.  For  with  all  his  vagaries,  the  Virginian  was  a  realist. 
As  early  as  1816,  he  had  seen  through  the  'tariff  humbug/  long  before 
bitter  experience  had  brought  a  similar  comprehension  to  Calhoun.  All  the 
throbbing,  storm-tossed  issues  that  were  to  torment  the  South  and  the 
nation  for  the  next  thirty  years  were  passing  before  Randolph's  tortured 
vision.  He  knew  that  the  North  was  coming  'to  believe  that  to  prefer  in- 
dustry to  agriculture  was  to  be  "progressive," '  and  that  'the  South  .  .  . 
had  accepted  the  Union  on  the  assumption  that  the  power  of  government 
would  remain  in  the  hands  of  the  landed  classes,  who  alone  have  that  under- 
standing of  tradition,  without  which  no  society  can  be  healthy.'38  Ten 
years  before,  his  warnings  had  struck  deaf  ears,  but  his  powers  of  prophecy 
were  still  unimpaired. 

State  Rights?  Divided  Sovereignty?  Disunion?  'This  government  is  the 
breath  of  the  nostrils  of  the  States.  ...  To  ask  a  State  to  surrender  part 
of  her  sovereignty  is  like  asking  a  lady  to  surrender  part  of  her  chastity.' 
We  could  have  disunion  in  a  moment.  The  voters  'have  only  to  refuse  to 
send  members'  to  Congress,  'and  the  thing  is  done.' 

Randolph  was  a  humanitarian  slaveholder.  'The  greatest  orator  I  ever 
heard  was  a  woman,'  he  once  said.  'She  was  a  slave.  She  was  a  mother,  and 
her  rostrum  was  the  auction  block.' **  Yet  he  hurled  warnings  at  those  who 
would  tamper  with  the  system.  'We  must  concern  ourselves  with  what  is, 
and  slavery  exists  ...  it  ...  is  to  us  a  question  of  life  and  death  ...  a 
necessity  imposed  on  the  South,  not  a  Utopia  of  our  seeking.' 

'We  are  the  eel  that  is  being  flayed!'  he  shouted.  'We  of  the  South  are 
united  from  the  Ohio  to  Florida,  and  we  can  always  unite,  but  you  of  the 
North  are  beginning  to  divide.  We  have  conquered  you  once,  and  we  will 
conquer  you  again/ 

Calhoun  listened.  Randolph's  lurid  words  were  tearing  him  out  of  the 
confidence  and  certainty  of  his  early  public  life.  His  career  had  perhaps 
been  too  much  of  a  triumph  for  so  young  a  man.  Now  he  was  facing  de- 
feat, not  alone  of  his  personal  ambitions,  but  of  all  that  he  held  dear.  With 
Randolph,  he  was  among  the  first  American  leaders  to  understand  the 
chang;ing  conditions  that  were  swooping  down  upon  the  country.  'He  was 
thus,  in  a  critical  moment,  called  on  to  make  ...  a  decision  which  was  to 
shape  his  destiny,  and  perhaps  the  destiny  of  a  whole  people.' 8S  He  had  the 


XI          MR.  VICE-PRESIDENT   CALHOUN  167 

choice  of  trimming  his  sails  to  catch  the  popular  wind  or  of  resisting  the 
storm.  He  could  become  a  politician  or  a  statesman.  Although  political 
intrigue  had  played  and  would  continue  to  play  an  important  role  in  his 
life,  fundamentally  his  decision  was  made  on  the  last  day  of  February, 
1827. 

His  choice  was  a  difficult  one,  with  his  record  as  an  avowed  high-tariff 
man.  When  the  wool  tariff  hung  on  his  deciding  vote,  his  friends  begged 
him  to  stay  away  from  4%  chair.  By  evading  the  issue,  as  General^  Jackson 
was  so  adroitly  doing,  his  strength  in  Pennsylvania  would  remain  unim- 
paired. But  by  such  evasion  the  bill  would  pass,  dealing  a  crushing  blow 
to  Southern  agriculture.  Calhoun  did  not  flinch.  He  cast  his  vote  against 
the  measure. 

In  the  North,  Calhoun's  popularity  began  to  collapse.  In  the  South,  it 
rose.  But  the  assertion  of  his  devoted  Carolina  supporters,  that  'neither 
ancient  nor  modern  annals  furnish  a  nobler  example  of  heroic  sacrifice,5 
and  that  he  had  surrendered  'every  prospect  of  the  Presidency/  *  is  a 
masterpiece  of  exaggeration.  Calhoun  knew  perfectly  well  that  whether 
or  not  he  supported  the  tariff,  he  would  not  be  the  next  President.  How- 
ever the  game  was  played,  the  one  man  in  America  with  the  winning  hand 
was  Andrew  Jackson.  And  this  time  Calhoun  saw  wisdom  early,  and  again 
postponing  his  long-range  ambitions,  accepted  'second  place'  on  the  Jack- 
sonian  ticket  for  1828. 

But  he  could  never  be  President  without  the  support  of  the  South.  He 
was  fighting  a  majority  trend,  but  there  was  plenty  of  vitality  on  the 
minority  side.  Since  1824,  when  Congress  had  clamped  duties  on  hemp, 
cotton  bagging,  and  cheap  wool  for  slave  clothing,  Washington  had  needed 
no  John  Randolph  to  explain  the  meaning  of  the  thousands  of  petitions, 
memorials,  and  resolutions  in  denunciation  of  high  tariffs  which  came  flood- 
ing in  from  the  South.  For  Calhoun  the  pathway  was  clear.  The  tariff  of 
1816  had  taught  him  his  lesson.  His  consistency  in  regard  to  tariffs  was 
open  to  question,  but  his  fundamental  loyalties  were  unchanged.  He  was  a 
South  Carolinian.  Throughout  his  career  he  was  willing  to  support  meas- 
ures advantageous  to  other  sections,  so  long  as  they  did  not  harm  his 
own  state.  The  tariff  of  1816  had  not  hurt  South  Carolina.  The  tariff  of 
1824  not  only  hurt  South  Carolina,  but  the  whole  South  as  well.  The  times 
had  warranted  his  stand,  and  he  was  consistent  according  to  his  own  defini- 
tion. Inconsistency,  he  once  held,  was  a  change  of  position  when  there  is  no 
change  of  circumstances  to  warrant  it.87 

He  had  gone  through  a  change  far  greater  than  his  stand  on  the  tariff. 
His  whole  concept  of  government  had  been  torn  apart;  he  saw  that  in  his 
triumphant  self-confidence  of  1812,  when  the  shipping  interests  of  New 
England  had  been  ruthlessly  sacrificed  to  the  need  for  home  industries,  he 
had  made  a  grim  mistake:  that  by  'setting  up  the  principle  of^  majority 
rule,  he  had  armed  another  section  with  the  power  to  destroy  his  own.3 


168  JOHN  C.  CALHOUK 

Yet  he  deplored  sectionalism.  He  would  not  ask  for  benefits  exclusively 
for  his  state,  or  for  his  section.  Laws  for  the  general  welfare  did  not  include 
the  enrichment  of  any  part  of  the  country  at  the  expense  of  another.  Yet 
forced  into  sectional  rivalry  by  the  tightening  unification  of  the  industrial 
North  and  East,  the  Southern  agriculturalists  already  knew  that  their  very 
existence  depended  upon  an  alliance  with  the  West.  Westerners,  on  the 
other  hand,  had  found  that  their  cheap  whiskey  could  steal  the  New  Eng- 
land rum  market  and  had  demanded  a  protective  tariff  against  imports  of 
West  Indian  molasses.  In  as  simple  a  move  as  that  had  the  West  become 
momentarily  allied  to  the  East  in  demanding  'protection.'  Conversely,  if 
fifty-one  per  cent  of  the  country  had  been  supporting  the  South,  and  for 
special  economic  benefits  two  per  cent  had  shifted  to  the  North,  did  that 
transfer  of  self-interest  endow  the  majority  with  divinity?  Were  the 
majority  and  the  general  welfare  synonymous?  In  the  name  of  good  sports- 
manship were  the  entire  Southern  people  to  submit  to  economic  conditions 
which  might  destroy  their  livelihood,  their  capacity  to  develop  to  the  ends 
for  which  Nature  had  intended  them?  What  dignity  existed  in  this  use  of 
government?  What  moral  obligation  compelled  one  great  group  to  submit 
to  another?  Was  the  will  of  the  majority  the  voice  of  God? 

Calhoun  denied  it.  There  was  a  loftiness  in  the  problems  that  he  now 
faced,  for  they  dealt  with  the  basic  question  of  loyalty  in  a  government: 
the  source  of  the  obligation  to  obey.  As  early  as  1820,  these  questions  had 
tugged  at  his  consciousness,  but  only  now  did  he  have  time  to  study  and 
reflect  upon  them.  His  evolution  had  been  slow  during  years  when  he  was 
gathering  a  variety  of  impressions  and  experiences.  Now  he  had  reached 
his  decision.  In  defiance  of  popular  sentiment,  he  denied  the  validity  of  a 
basic  and  accepted  principle  of  so-called  'free  government5  in  modern  times. 
Triumphant  in  the  twentieth  century,  it  was  generally  recognized  in  the 
nineteenth,  'that  the  majority  ought  to  be  the  ruling  power.' 39 

As  yet  Calhoun's  opposition  was  abstract.  He  had  found  no  solution.  But 
he  recognized  the  great  defect  of  unchecked  majority  rule  in  the  American 
system.  And  he  knew  that  if  there  was  an  'American  way/  if  there  was 
something  inherent  in  free  America,  unknown  to  other  nations,  it  would 
be  a  common  loyalty,  a  reciprocal  justice,  a  give-and-take,  between  its 
varied  economic  groups;  not  the  tyranny  of  the  seven  million  over  the  six 
million,  but  a  government  of  the  entire  people.  The  Constitution,  so  Cal- 
houn believed,  had  been  devised  to  create  such  a  government  of  justice,  of 
mutual  concession.  It  was  not  being  so  interpreted.  But  there  was  more 
than  one  possible  interpretation. 

Calhoun  groped  for  a  solution.  Though  he  had  advised  William  Wirt  to 
'study  less'  and  trust  more  to  original  genius,^  he  himself  was  studying 
now.  He  was  reading  the  debates  of  the  Constitutional  Convention,  learn- 
ing that  the  fundamental  theory  of  our  government  was  not  based  on 
majority  rule,  but  on  checks  and  balances.  He  was  reading  the  Virginia  and 


XI          MR.   VICE-PRESIDENT   CALHOUN  169 

Kentucky  Resolutions.  He  was  spending  hours  in  thought,  self-questioning, 
and  reflection.  He  had  learned  to  divide  the  powers  of  his  intellect,  so 
that  he  could  lose  himself  in  concentration  yet  remain  aware  of  matters  on 
the  floor.  Wrapped  in  such  self-absorption,  he  could  sit  ten  or  twelve  hours 
at  a  time,  without  food,  without  rest,  and  without  leaving  the  chair, 
'motionless  as  a  figure  of  marble.7  Already  he  looked  pale  and  attenuated, 
'as  if  in  bad  health/  41  but  as  a  presiding  officer  his  patience  was  almost 
inexhaustible.  Only  once  during  a  long  and  arduous  session  had  he  be- 
trayed his  nervous  strain  with  an  outbreak  of  temper. 


He  had  little  reason  for  peace  of  mind.  Day  by  day  he  lived  under  a 
steadily  mounting  weight  of  foreboding,  climaxed  during  the  summer  of 
1827,  when  a  general  convention  of  manufacturers  met  in  Harrisburg,  Penn- 
sylvania, to  unite  all  friends  of  the  tariff  interest  on  a  program  for  1828. 
Calhoun  watched  in  grim  silence.  He  was  still  uncertain  as  to  whether 
Congress  had  power  to  encourage  'domestick  manufactures,5  but  he  had  at 
this  time  no  uncertainty  as  to  the  'dangerous  example  of  seperate  repre- 
sentation, and  association  of  great  Geographical  interests  to  promote  their 
prosperity  at  the  expense  of  other  interests,  unrepresented,  and  fixed  in 
another  section,  which  ...  is  calculated  to  .  ,  .  make  two  of  one  nation. 
How  far  the  administration  is  involved  in  this  profligate  scheme,  time  will 
determine;  but  if  they  be,  the  curse  of  posterity  will  be  on  their  head/42 

Calhoun  could  only  wait  now — wait  and  look  on,  as  the  dickering  and 
horse-trading  of  the  'boisterous'  session  of  1828  roared  to  a  close.  The 
protectionists  had  control  of  the  House.  Their  bill,  as  passed,  laid  duties 
'even  higher  and  more  indiscriminately  than  those  of  the  Harrisburg 
plan.'  43  But  the  battle  was  not  won  without  a  fight,  and  the  cloying  heat 
of  May  was  closing  over  Washington  before  the  bill  reached  the  Senate 
floor.  " 

Here  events  halted,  as  the  New  England  Senators  revised  provisions  to 
suit  their  commercial  and  navigation  needs.  Even  so,  the  outcome  looked 
close — so  close  that  once  again  Administration  leaders  prepared  a  scheme 
to  destroy  CaJhojin's — and,  incidentally,  Andrew  Jackson's — Presidential 
hopes.  A  second  tie — so  it  was  rumored — was  being  arranged  for  the 
specific  purpose  of  putting  Old  Hickory's  running  mate  on  record  in  op- 
position to  the  whole  tariff  program. 

Even  Calhoun's  opponents  marveled  at  his  courage.  Again  he  did  not 
shrink  from  the  choice.  He  would  not  embarrass  General  Jackson's  pros- 
pects for  election.  He  would  vote  against  the  bill — so  the  word  was  passed 
through  the  ranks  of  the  Administration — and  instantly  withdraw  his  name 
'from  the  ticket  as  Vice-President.'  The  tie  was  not  arranged.44 


170  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

Calhoun  was  beyond  all  thought  of  self  now.  The  actual  passage  of  the 
so-called  Tariff  of  Abominations,'  long  as  he  had  expected  it,  shook  him 
to  his  depths.  A  friend  watched  him  pacing  the  floor  that  night,  hour  after 
hour,  in  a  restless  frenzy,  running  his  long  fingers  through  his  hair  until 
it  stood  erect  all  over  his  head.  His  first  horrified  look  into  the  abyss  had 
been  too  clear;  in  a  glance  he  had  seen  impending  civil  war  or  the  dissolu- 
tion of  the  Union,  and  to  a  man  of  his  patriotism,  these  alternatives  were 
equally  horrible. 

'It  was  worse  than  folly/  he  said,  'it  was  madness,  itself.  With  the  public 
debt  paid  off,  the  Government  could  have  cut  duties  in  half  and  still  have 
had  ample  funds.'  Instead,  duties  were  increased,  'on  an  average  nearly 
fifty  per  cent/  at  the  sacrifice  of  the  planters,  the  farmers,  the  shipbuilders 
— all  to  'promote  the  prosperity  of  a  single  interest.' 45 

Many  historians  have  contended  that  slavery  was  the  actual  cause  of 
the  great  cleavage  between  North  and  South,  climaxed  in  the  bloodshed 
of  the  Civil  War.  Others,  such  as  Christopher  Hollis  and  Woodrow  Wilson, 
have  agreed  with  Calhoun  that  the  tariff  issue  was  basic,  'the  great  central 
issue  around  which  all  the  others  revolved';  4a  others  still,  as  the  conflict 
between  agrarianism  and  industrialism,  between  the  cotton  capitalism  of 
the  South  and  the  finance  capitalism  of  the  North. 

This  is  a  question  of  the  utmost  importance.  It  could  be  debated  end- 
lessly. Few  today  would  deny  that  slavery  is  and  was  always  a  great  moral 
wrong.  Yet  as  an  institution  in  the  eighteen-twenties,  it  cannot  be  judged 
from  the  vantage-point  of  the  twentieth  century.  Many  morally  upright 
Southerners — like  Calhoun  himself — could  not  see  the  moral  evil  of  slavery. 
It  is  true  that  at  this  period  there  were  numerous  abolition  and  emancipa- 
tion societies  in  the  Southern  states;  4T  whereas,  in  the  New  England  of 
Calhoun's  young  manhood,  slavery  had  been  tolerated,  if  not  condoned.48 
Both  North  and  South,  recognition  of  its  evils  was  now  growing;  yet  as  a 
moral  issue  it  was  then,  perhaps,  in  the  category  of  the  civil  rights  problem 
of  today. 

It  was  as  an  economic  question  that  slavery  counted.  For,  as  we  shall 
later  see,  a  cotton-slave  economy  was  depleting  the  Southern  soil  and 
would  lead  to  the  outcry  for  new  slave  territory  and  the  whole  expansion- 
ist movement.  Farsighted  as  Calhoun  was,  it  is  doubtful  that  he  ever 
realized  this  issue  in  its  entirety.  Himself  a  fervid  soil-conservationist,  he 
was  blind  to  the  drain  of  the  cotton  economy  on  the  Southern  soil — blam- 
ing Southern  depression  entirely  on  the  encroachments  of  the  Northern 
rival  economy.*  Yet  if  uncertain  of  the  cause,  he  was  aware  of  the  result, 
and  would  become  foremost  among  those  who  demanded  new  territories 

*  Oddly  enough,  Western  diversified  farming,  economically  and  politically,  was 
able  to  withstand  the  'encroachments'  of  Northern  industry,  throughout  the  entire 
ante-bellum  period. 


XI  MR.   VICE-PRESIDENT   CALHOUN  171 

and  union  of  the  agrarian  South  and  West  as  essential  to  Southern  plant- 
ing prosperity. 

From  Calhoun's  excitement  over  the  tariff  question,  we  can  see  that 
slavery  was  not  now  foremost  in  his  mind.  What  he  did  see — with  his  un- 
canny grasp  of  fundamentals — was  'the  great  and  vital  point'  as  'the 
industry  of  the  country — which  comprehends  almost  every  interest.3  49 
Slavery,  the  tariff,  banking — all  were  aspects  of  this  one  point.  The  issues 
did  not  make  the  division;  the  basic  'geographic  dissimilarity'  between 
North  and  South  created  the  issues.  In  almost  every  aspect  of  their  'in- 
dustries,' the  expanding  North  and  the  retreating  South  were  at  odds. 

Already  Calhoun  saw  that  the  South  was  fated  to  become  a  minority  in 
the  nation.  And  for  him  the  minority  question  was  basic.  The  Union,  as  he 
interpreted  it,  was  devised  for  the  protection  of  minorities;  majorities 
could  look  after  themselves.  And  the  South,  an  economic  minority  within 
the  Union,  was  being  reduced  to  financial  subservience  by  a  hostile  voting 
majority. 

That  Calhoun's  political  theory  was  designed  to  cover  the  peculiar  needs 
of  the  slaveholders  is  undeniable.  That  slavery  was  one  of  the  reasons  why 
his  theory  was  developed  is  possible.  Yet  the  gist  of  his  doctrine — what- 
ever may  have  been  its  conscious  or  unconscious  origins — the  protection  of 
minority  rights  within  the  Union  transcended  the  immediate  issues  of  his 
own  time,  however  vital  they  may  have  been. 

Whatever  question  or  combination  of  questions  led  Calhoun  to  focus 
his  interest  on  minorities  at  this  period,  the  tariff  was  undoubtedly  the 
immediate  cause.  Symbolically,  at  least,  its  importance  can  hardly  be  over- 
estimated. For  at  this  moment  the  tariff  was  charged  with  all  the  emotions 
arising  from  the  beginnings  of  a  fundamental  cleavage  between  North  and 
South.  Economically  its  importance  is  less  easy  to  ascertain.  Yet  it  was  'an 
oppression  to  the  South'  long  before  the  slavery  issue  became  paramount, 
and  it  remained  an  oppression  'long  after  slavery  was  abolished.' 5a 

The  fight  would  not  be  easily  determined.  Calhoun  warned:  'I  do  not 
belong  to  the  school  which  holds  that  aggression  is  to  be  met  by  conces- 
sion. .  .  .  Encroachments  must  be  met  at  the  beginning  and  .  .  .  those 
who  act  on  the  opposite  principles  are  prepared  to  become  slaves.' 51 


xn 

Unionist  Comes  Home 


IF  ANY  AMERICAN  had  wanted  to  lay  his  finger  on  the  pulse  of  Southern 
public  opinion  between  1825  and  1850,  he  would  have  found  no  better 
place  for  the  purpose  than  Pendleton,  South  Carolina.  To  the  casual  ob- 
server Pendleton  might  have  seemed  little  more  than  a  sun-baked  cross- 
roads village,  where  raw-boned  farmers  from  the  hill-country  lounged  hi 
front  of  Tom  Cherry's  inn  and  watched  the  indifferent  passage  of  time.1 
Certain  town  documents,  however,  told  a  different  story.  The  names  on  the 
lending  library  list,  the  church  records,  and  even  the  minutes  of  the  Farm- 
ers' Society  2  would  have  been  strangely  familiar  and  strangely  misplaced. 
They  were  Gaillard,  Ravenel,  Hunt,  and  Colhoun.  They  were  Prioleau  and 
Pinckney.  They  were,  in  short,  Charleston. 

Pendleton,  set  deep  hi  the  rolling  red  hills  of  the  up-country,  had  a 
summer  climate.  Not  that  it  was  cool,  but  in  the  language  of  the  natives,  it 
was  'healthy.'  To  Charlestonians,  some  of  whom  had  buried  ten  children 
in  the  periodic  ravages  of  yellow  fever  and  cholera,  Pendleton  had  appeal 
both  for  health  and  agriculture.  During  the  eighteen-twenties,  mansion 
after  mansion  arose  in  columned  splendor  along  the  banks  of  the  Seneca. 
Fresh-painted  columns  gleamed  through  hedges  of  bamboo  and  wild 
orange;  red  hills  were  turning  white  with  cotton. 

Here,  too,  had  come  the  Charleston  civilization:  the  wrought-iron  work 
of  William  Gaillard,  the  workshops  of  cabinet-  and  carriage-makers,  print- 
ing presses  for  the  Pendleton  Messenger  and  the  magazine,  The  Farmer 
and  the  Planter.  Little  girls  were  subjected  to  Yankee  schoolmarms,  French 
verbs,  'elegant'  table  manners,  and  ramrod  posture.  Little  boys  from  the 
Military  Academy  paraded  about  the  Town  Square  in  a  glory  of  gray 
uniforms  and  brass  buttons.  At  the  inn,  Tom  Cherry  frowned  as  he  urged 
his  Negroes  to  polish  harder  and  faster  until  the  waxed  floor  of  his  ball- 
room gleamed  like  new-washed  glass  in  the  sun.  He  had  the  Eagle  Hotel  to 
give  him  competition  now. 

Knee-deep  in  the  lush  green  fields  around  the  village,  fat  Jersey  and 
Devon  cattle  placidly  chewed  their  cuds.  Blooded  horses  whinnied  and 
tossed  their  manes,  'the  finest  horses  in  the  country,'  according  to  those 
who  owned  and  bet  on  them.3  Beyond  the  village  lay  the  fairgrounds  and, 


XII  A  UNIONIST    COMES   HOME  173 

most  important  of  all,  a  race-track.  Yes,  Pendleton  had  come  far  in  twenty 
years;  from  a  frontier  village  it  had  become  the  acknowledged  center  of 
business,  government,  and  culture  for  the  entire  Carolina  up-country. 

Calhoun  knew  the  locality.  He  had  frequently  come  up  into  the  hills  for 
hunting  and  fishing,  and  to  visit  his  brothers-in-law,  John  and  James  Col- 
houn.  By  1826,  he  had  decided  that  it  was  time  to  establish  his  own  home 
in  South  Carolina.4 

As  with  the  Charlestonians,  considerations  of  health  influenced  his  de- 
cision. 'The  soil  is  indifferent,  but  the  climate  fine/  he  told  a  friend.  His 
baby  son,  John,  had  almost  died  of  'lung  fever9  during  the  last  winter  in 
Washington  and  only  recovered  when  brought  down  into  the  Carolina 
foothills.5  But  finances  played  their  part:  a  lowered  income  from  his  farm 
property,  his  small  salary  as  Vice-President,  and  a  family  of  growing 
children  to  educate,  all  added  to  his  burdens.  Then,  too,  his  political  fences 
stood  badly  in  need  of  repair;  he  had  been  away  from  home  too  long. 
Favorite  though  he  was  in  the  country  as  a  whole,  had  he  required  merely 
the  vote  of  his  native  state,  it  is  doubtful  whether  at  this  time  he  could 
have  been  elected  to  office.  His  long  silence  during  years  when  the  tariff 
controversy  was  mounting  to  fever  heat  had  given  local  politicians,  with 
whom  he  was  never  overpopular,  ample  opportunity  to  find  him  guilty  of 
'playing  politics/ 

He  was  not  wholly  playing  politics  in  returning  to  South  Carolina,  how- 
ever. 'There  were  two  or  three  Calhouns,  perhaps  more/  6  a  friend  once 
wrote.  One,  driven  by  ambition,  eager  to  shape  his  political  theories  into 
realities,  chose  a  life  of  turmoil  in  the  glare  of  national  publicity.  The 
other,  home-loving,  studious,  and  retiring,  yearned  for  the  slow  tempo 
and  richness  of  daily  living  to  be  found  in  the  planter's  existence.  The  two 
Calhouns  had  fused  their  differences  in  the  man  who  returned  to  South 
Carolina  in  1826.  Personal  inclinations  had  drawn  -him  back,  but  ambition 
told  him  that  such  a  course  was  a  necessity  to  his  political  future. 

Calhoun  had  come  home.  With  the  one  exception  of  the  winter  of  1836- 
37,  when  his  daughter,  Anna  Maria,  was  with  him,  Calhoun  never  really 
made  a  home  in  Washington  again.  He  returned  to  the  'messes' ;  he  had  no 
surplus  funds  with  which  to  maintain  two  establishments,  and  was  sep- 
arated 'almost  continually'  from  the  wife  and  children  to  whom  he  was  so 
devoted.  Yet  he  was  happy;  he  had  'struck  roots'  in  his  native  state,  where 
all  his  true  interests  were  centered.  Here  he  attended  church,  educated  his 
children,  bought  his  groceries,  and  got  his  mail.  Here  he  kept  open  house 
for  his  own  and  his  wife's  clans,  shared  peach  cobbler  and  fried  chicken 
at  the  homes  of  his  neighbors. 

The  name  of  Calhoun  gave  Pendleton  distinction.  Yet  he  was  never  so 
much  a  part  of  the  village — with  its  glossy  city  veneer — as  of  the  District 
outside.  The  rural  aspects  of  Pendleton  most  appealed  to  him.  Beyond  the 
village — just  as  in  Abbeville  a  generation  earlier — stretched  the  last  out- 


174  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

posts  of  the  Southern  frontier.  There  rose  the  mountains,  reaching  back 
into  infinities  of  space;  there  lay  miles  upon  miles  of  forest,  wild  as  when 
the  Indians  had  roamed  their  trails.  Half  an  hour's  ride  from  Pendleton 
and  you  were  in  another  world,  a  world  of  tall  pine  and  clear  streams,  run- 
ning with  trout;  of  road  trails,  glittering  with  quartz  and  tangled  with 
briers  and  passion-flowers.  Deep  in  a  clearing  stood  'Old  HopewelP  Church 
with  its  thick  walls  of  native  fieldstone,  its  walnut  pulpit  and  pews  and 
heavily  shuttered  windows;  beyond,  the  graveyard,  where  the  first  genera- 
tion of  up-country  pioneers  now  lay. 

Half  a  century  ago  this  had  been  untracked  wilderness.  Here  were  red- 
scarred  hills,  grist  mills  above  the  undershot  water-wheels,  whitewashed 
farmhouses  with  high  blue  ceilings,  log  barns  with  corn  cribs  in  the  rear. 

Here  lived  the  men  of  Calhoun's  own  flesh  and  bone  and  spirit,  the  tall 
men  of  the  hill-country,  who  held  themselves  in  check  for  fear  of  their 
emotions.  Here  were  the  Jeffersonian  Puritans,  who  sought  only  happi- 
ness and  the  salvation  of  their  souls,  asking  always  of  all  law:  'Will  it 
leave  us  alone?  Will  it  leave  us  free?' 7  On  the  surface  they  were  a  gay 
people,  quick  to  smile  and  swift  with  laughter;  but  beneath  ran  streaks 
of  melancholy,  of  austerity  and  of  mysticism. 

These  were  men  'still  close  to  the  pioneers  in  spirit';  not  poor  whites, 
but  tough-minded  farmers  with  an  instinct  for  penetrating  to  funda- 
mentals. They  had  fought  the  Revolution  knowing  well  that  not  England, 
but  the  commercial  dominance  of  England,  had  been  their  enemy. 

They  had  watched  and  waited;  the  fight,  they  knew,  far  from  being 
over,  had  scarcely  begun.  They  had  favored  the  loose  alliance  of  North 
and  South  under  the  Articles  of  Confederation;  but  when,  as  they  saw  it, 
'commercial,  financial,  and  special  interests'  found  the  Federation  'too 
weak  to  serve  their  purposes/  their  'suspicions  were  aroused.' 8 

They  remembered  Pat  Calhoun's  denunciation  of  the  new  Constitution 
as  taxation  without  representation.'  They  knew  'the  fathers,'  not  as  revo- 
lutionists, but  as  conservatives,  men  of  property,  intent  on  safeguarding 
the  interests  of  property.  For  two  hundred  years  the  South  had  been  a 
colonial  dependency  of  Great  Britain.  Would  it  exchange  its  dear-bought 
freedom  to  become  a  colony  of  the  commercial  North? 

The  back-country  farmers  had  fought.  They  had  fought  in  Virginia,  in 
Maryland,  and  in  the  two  Carolinas,  but  they  had  fought  alone.  Terri- 
fied by  their  'Western'  radicalism,  the  planters  had  scurried  to  the  cover 
offered  by  such  conservatives  as  slender,  violet-eyed  Hamilton,  who  had 
understood  that  prosperity  was  to  be  attained  only  by  a  stable  govern- 
ment controlled  by  the  propertied  classes. 

But  prosperity  for  big  business  had  not  necessarily  meant  prosperity 
for  agriculture.  What  the  gentlemen  of  the  plantations  were  slowly  real- 
izing was  what  the  Piedmont  farmers  had  known  all  the  time.  Between 
the  alternatives  of  friendship  or  profits,  no  hesitation  will  be  made.  Fed- 


XH          A  UNIONIST   COMES  HOME  175 

eralist  leaders— the  Whigs  of  a  later  day— had  formed  their  alliances,  not 
with  their  Southern  dinner  partners,  but  with  the  business  houses  of  Great 
Britain,  accepting  their  leadership  in  the  general  advance  of  an  industrial 
society. 


The  South  had  not  won  freedom  in  '76.  It  had  changed  masters.  This  was 
why  the  Piedmont  farmers  had  shied  off  from  the  idea  of  a  Federal  Union. 
As  a  separate  country,  they  could  have  bargained  independently  with 
Old  or  New  England  for  the  cheap  manufactured  goods  they  wanted. 

Not  even  the  Virginia  Dynasty  could  reverse  the  Hamiltonian  trend. 
As  written,  the  Constitution  might  guarantee  a  federal  and  not  a  national 
government;  but  would  it  be  interpreted  as  written?  Now,  as  Jefferson 
had  feared,  it  seemed  that  industry  and  finance  were  to  become  the  master, 
not  the  servants,  of  agriculture  and  commerce.  That  the  South  was  yoked 
in  an  unequal  Union,  by  the  eighteen-twenties  was  already  becoming 
apparent.9  Furthermore,  slavery  was  wiping  out  any  chance  for  the  South 
to  compete  with  the  North  industrially.  Southern  capital  was  too  sub- 
merged in  the  peculiar  institution  to  leave  any  surplus  for  untried  enter- 
prises. Slavery  had  doomed  the  South  to  remain  agricultural. 

Basically  the  Piedmont  Southerners  were  still  democrats,  still  Jefferson- 
ians,  but  Jefferson's  dream  of  an  America  of  small  farms  was  going  up  in 
the  smoke  of  an  industrial  revolution  his  eyes  had  not  foreseen;  in  a 
gigantic  capitalism  of  big-scale  plantations  and  big-scale  industries.  Up- 
countrymen  were  no  longer  content  to  be  sturdy  yeomen  on  two-horse 
farms;  they  must  be  planters  and  gentlemen.  North  and  South,  the  new 
cotton  economy  with  its  demands  for  cheap  labor  was  destroying  the 
theory  of  a  free  and  equal  society  of  all  men.  Yet  there  was  enough  of 
Jeffersonian  opportunity  left  in  the  South  for  the  men  of  strength  and 
drive  to  walk  behind  their  plows  at  fifteen  and  to  count  their  acres  by  the 
thousands  at  fifty. 

Earlier,  slavery  and  political  prejudice  had  separated  the  log-cabin 
farmers  of  the  frontier  from  the  planters  of  the  coast.  Now,  through  sheer 
necessity,  the  planter  was  slowly  reconciling  his  political  differences  with 
the  back-country.  Day  by  day,  year  by  year,  slavery  was  drawing  the 
two  classes  together.  A  man  could  raise  an  extra  bale  or  two  of  cotton, 
buy  a  raw  'hand'  cheap,  train  him,  work  him,  and  double  his  cotton  out- 
put in  a  single  season.  Within  ten  years  he  would  be  pushing  on  into  the 
big  landholding  class.  He  might  still  spit  tobacco  and  make  crude  jokes 
on  the  steps  of  the  cross-roads  store  and  ride  to  town  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
but  he  would  send  his  wife  to  church  in  a  carriage  and  his  boys  to  the 
state  universities. 

It  was  this  class,  cto  which  the  great  majority  of  Southern  whites  be- 


J76  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

longed/ 10  that  was  forging  the  links  of  a  united  South.  From  this  group 
descended  the  poor  white,  the  frailer,  slower,  luckless  settler  of  the  pine 
barrens  or  the  sand  hills.  And  from  this  class  also  sprang  the  big  land- 
holders, the  'great  majority,'  in  fact,  of  the  planters  of  Virginia,  Georgia, 
and  the  two  Carolinas.11  Slaves  meant  money  and  money  meant  educa- 
tion, and  education  and  the  tastes  of  a  gentleman  were  all  that  the  aris- 
tocrats of  Charleston  and  Virginia  had  had  a  few  generations  earlier. 
Socially,  as  well  as.  economically,  it  was  possible,  in  a  very  short  time, 
for  'up-country  gentlemen'  to  assume  the  manners,  the  habits,  and  the 
privileges  of  the  planting  class. 

No  artificial  tenant  system  stiffened  relationships.  Planters  had  too 
many  slaveless  second  cousins  in  the  next  county  to  attempt  any  false 
pretenses  with  their  neighbors  or  'kin.'  Democratic  'to  the  core/  they 
would  intermarry  with  the  homespun  as  freely  as  with  the  broadcloth.12 

But  economic  compulsion  aided  romance.  Pushed  to  the  wall,  the  older 
planters  were  reluctantly  compelled  to  seek  allies  in  the  despised  'Western 
radicals'  of  a  generation  before. 

Profitable  as  slavery  might  seem  to  the  newcomer  to  the  planting  class, 
his  shrewd  vision  was  not  dulled.  Since  1816,  he  had  been  buying  in  a 
protected  market  and  selling  in  an  open  one.  The  merciless  pressures  of 
world  capitalism,  with  its  demands  on  a  cotton  economy  that  were  stretch- 
ing his  farm  into  a  plantation,  had  made  his  choice  inevitable.  He  could 
be  rich  or  he  could  be  poor.  He  could  be  a  part  of  the  once-hated  'planting 
aristocracy' — or  its  victim.  Against  the  capitalism  of  the  North,  his  only 
hope  was  to  join  the  rival  capitalism  of  the  South. 

What  made  the  newcomer  a  potent  ally  was  his  inherent  level-headed- 
ness.  Shrewdly  he  had  realized  that  his  only  chance  for  self-realization 
lay  in  the  planting  class.  He  had  assumed  his  new  role,  full-armed  with 
all  his  old  fears.  The  enemy  was  the  same.  The  greater  the  contrast  be- 
tween his  present  wealth  and  his  past  poverty,  the  greater  the  gulf  be- 
tween the  profits  he  made  and  the  profits  he  should  have  made.  It  was  easy 
to  become  a  slaveholder,  but  easier  still  to  go  bankrupt  as  a  slaveholder. 
And  one  who  had  tasted  of  the  sweets  of  the  'Southern  way  of  life'  had 
no  intention  of  abandoning  them. 

Thus,  on  the  basis  of  a  common  economic  interest  and  a  common  enemy, 
Southern  unity  was  being  achieved.  It  was  a  slow  process.  It  would  be 
two  generations  before  the  unification  would  be  complete;  and  by  then, 
it  would  be  too  late.18 

But  what  was  happening  in  Pendleton  was  in  a  sense  happening  all  over 
the  Southern  states.  Up-country  and  low-country  met,  clashed,  and 
blended.  Two  civilizations  were  fusing  in  South  Carolina,  and  although 
not  typical,  of  the  entire  variegated  pattern  of  the  South,  she  was  as 
representative  as  any  one  state  could  be.  After  1825,  she  would  lead 
the  Southern  mind." 


XH  A  UNIONIST   COMES   HOME  177 

Historians  would  write  of  the  leadership  of  the  slaveholders.  The  truth 
was  less  simple.  Neighborhood  planters  might  meet  at  the  courthouse  to 
lay  down  the  laws  and  nominate  one  of  their  number  to  be  Congressman 
or  legislator — in  the  good  old  Virginia  style — but  the  newcomer  could 
not  be  excluded.  Often  as  the  sole  member  of  his  family  to  have  dressed 
his  log  cabin  in  a  coat  of  white  clapboards,  he  had  reached  a  sort  of 
eminence  among  his  'kin.' w  Where  he  stood  today,  they  might  stand  to- 
morrow. He  had  proved  himself,  and  they  would  follow  him. 

What  the  planters  did  embody  was  the  fulfillment  of  the  common  ideal. 
The  Southern  society  was  a  society  of  gentlemen,  not  because  gentlemen 
were  in  the  majority,  but  because  the  majority  aspired  to  be  gentlemen. 
The  leader  of  the  Southern  mind  must  be  a  gentleman,  and  the  future 
leader  of  the  Southern  mind  was  John  C.  Calhoun. 

He  was  fitted  to  represent  the  idea.  A  gentleman  by  instinct,  he  made 
few  of  the  mistakes  of  most  newcomers  to  the  planting  class.  He  was 
patrician  in  his  very  simplicity.  If,  intellectually,  his  brilliant  mind  repre- 
sented Charleston  thought,  spiritually  and  even  physically  he  was  one 
with  his  own  people.  He  had  their  gauntness,  the  loneliness  which  never 
left  them,  no  matter  how  large  the  crowd  around  them.  Like  them,  he 
dreamed  of  America  as  the  'perfect  State.' ie  Like  them,  his  roots  struck 
far  into  the  earth,  and  the  beauty  of  the  Southern  farm  life  had  gone 
deeper  into  him  than  any  outsider  imagined.  If,  like  Lee  and  Davis  and 
all  the  ragged,  reckless  horde  in  butternut  gray,  he  would  fight  to  the  end 
for  a  cause  that  he  logically  knew  to  be  lost,  it  was  because,  like  them, 
he  was  fighting  not  only  for  a  life  he  lived  and  believed  good,  but  for  a 
land  he  loved. 


It  was  a  beautiful  land — this  land  he  loved.  It  was  a  vivid,  restless,  moody 
land,  torn  by  winds,  lashed  by  rains.  In  summer,  it  brooded  and  dreamed, 
a  blue  mist  over  the  mountains,  the  warm  air  heavy  with  the  scents  of 
myrtle  and  magnolia  and  sweet  with  the  smell  of  the  wild  plum.  It  was 
a  land  fitted  to  its  people;  it  had  their  energy  and  their  indolence;  it  had 
their  strength  and  it  held  their  dreams. 

For  Calhoun  it  was  once  more  home.  Now  his  children  could  live  as 
he  had  lived,  love  the  life  that  he  loved.  They  would  know  another  world 
from  Washington,  a  world  of  smokehouses  and  slow,  muddy  rivers,  and 
the  cotton  sack  dragging  from  the  shoulder  of  a  black  man.  They  would 
know  the  taste  of  tart  brown  cider  and  sun-mellowed  peaches,  of  corn- 
bread  dripping  with  country  butter  and  sorghum;  the  scents  of  horehound 
and  mint  leaves,  catnip  and  rosemary,  of  fresh-filled  hay  barns  and  plowed 
fields  wet  with  rain.  They  would  know  the  cry  of  the  screech  owl  and  the 


178  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

liquid  ripple  of  a  mocking-bird,  the  stitch  of  the  cricket  on  a  hot  summer 
night,  and  the  mournful  echo  of  the  'houn'  dawg,'  baying  to  an  October 
moon.  They  would  know  the  richness  and  color  of  this  Carolina  hill- 
country  that  even  in  winter  was  green  as  spring,  with  its  box  hedges  and 
short-needled  cedar  and  spruce;  pines  towering  black  against  a  hard  blue 
sky,  red  roads  cutting  through  the  hills,  and  the  last  pink  burning  of 
sunset  over  a  cotton  field.  They  would  know  the  rhythm  of  wheat  in  the 
wind,  and  the  hundred-degree  noontime  sun,  glittering  across  a  sanded 
yard.  They  would  know  the  stillness  of  summer  days,  the  wisdom  of 
silence,  and  the  certainties  of  stars.17 

With  his  people's  love  of  the  wind-swept  hills,  Calhoun  hoped  to  build 
on  the  highest  hilltop  in  the  region.18  Unable  to  purchase  it,  he  moved 
into  a  small  white  dwelling  known  as  'Clergy  Hall,'  once  the  'old  stone 
church'  parsonage,  and  in  more  recent  years  owned  by  Floride's  family.19 

Clergy  Hall  was  on  a  high  elevation.  Mountain  winds  whipped  through 
the  tall  cedars  that  bordered  the  drive,  and  rolling  fields  sloped  down 
toward  the  Seneca  River.  Calhoun  felt  at  home  instantly.  He  attended 
church  at  Hopewell,  but  the  crudeness  of  the  little  meeting-house  did  not 
suit  Floride's  taste,  and  she  herself  founded  an  Episcopal  church  down 
in  Pendleton.  Here  the  Presbyterian  Calhoun  came  occasionally;  and  to 
young  Charles  Cotesworth  Pinckney,  who  saw  him  for  the  first  time  at  the 
rear  of  a  long  line  of  his  children,  the  slender  man  with  graying  hair  was 
a  disappointment,  for  although  Vice-President  of  the  United  States,  he 
looked  no  different  from  other  Anderson  County  farmers.  But  as  he  spoke 
with  friends  after  the  service,  Pinckney  marveled  at  the  change  that 
crossed  his  features.  'His  whole  face,'  observed  the  rector's  son,  'was 
alight  with  genius.'  Calhoun  revealed  a  little  of  the  current  trend  of  his 
thought  to  Pinckney,  when,  after  some  approving  comments  on  the  spiritual 
benefits  of  public  worship,  he  suddenly  remarked:  'Shaking  hands  with 
your  neighbor  at  the  church  door,  asking  after  his  family,  even  remark- 
ing that  it  is  a  pleasant  day — these  all  have  a  wonderful  power  in  bind- 
ing men  together.' 20 

Binding  the  Anderson  County  men  even  more  closely  together,  how- 
ever, was  the  Pendleton  Farmers'  Society.  Established  in  18 IS  by  the 
planters,  for  the  farmers,  no  organization  in  the  district  was  more  in- 
clusive. And  the  minutes  show  that  on  an  August  night  in  1826,  'The 
Honorable  John  C.  Calhoun  .  .  .  attended  and  took  a  seat.' fl 

Here  Calhoun  fitted  in  perfectly.  Indeed,  from  1839  to  1840  he  pre- 
sided as  president  in  the  classic  little  building  with,  its  white-columned 
portico  facing  Pendleton  Square.  It  was  one  of  the  few  organizations  to 
which  he  ever  belonged,  for  he  was  that  rarity  among  public  men — a  non- 
joiner.  But  the  Farmers'  Society  especially  interested  him,  for  with 
similar  groups  throughout  the  state,  it  was  dedicated  to  agricultural  re- 
form. Its  aim  was  to  lead  agriculture  back  to  the  days  of  individual  plan- 


XH          A  UNIONIST   COMES  HOME  179 

tation  self-sufficiency,  both  in  farm  and  manufactured  products,  and  thus 
to  help  allay  the  effects  of  the  tariff. 

Women,  as  well  as  men,  were  included  in  these  aims.  Prizes  were  of- 
fered for  material  spun  and  woven  in  the  district;  from  the  best  bolts 
of  woolen,  cotton,  or  imitation  gingham  cloth  and  the  best  stockings  of 
twilled  homespun  to  the  'best  piece  linnen  Diaper,  6  yds.'  As  only  well- 
tended  or  reclaimed  land  could  produce  winning  crops,  prizes  were  awarded 
for  the  greatest  output  of  flint  corn  per  acre,  and  tie  best  fields  of  wheat, 
rye,  barley,  oats,  cotton,  peas,  and  hay.  There  were  awards  for  the  sweet- 
est home-churned  butter  and  the  most  mellow  barrel  of  cider,  for  the 
best  yoke  of  oxen,  the  finest  bull  calves  and  stallions.22 

'I  have  turned  farmer  since  my  return  home/  Calhoun  wrote  Swift  from 
Pendleton.  'I  am  wholly  absorbed  in  agriculture  to  the  exclusion  of  poli- 
ticks,3 was  his  word  to  Littleton  Tazewell  of  Virginia  a  year  later.28  At 
last  he  was  finding  release  from  the  pent-up  Washington  years.  Now  he 
could  take  time  to  invent  that  subsoil  plow;  **  to  try  out  the  Pennsylvania 
methods  of  plowing  and  planting,  watching  his  'hands'  to  see  that  the 
ground  was  so  deeply  cut  and  the  surface  so  thoroughly  turned  that  it 
would  be  almost  impossible  for  weeds  and  grass  to  sprout  during  an  en- 
tire summer.  He  would  see  that  the  corn  was  planted  'about  3  feet  apart 
both  ways,  as  to  overshadow  and  prevent  the  growth  of  weeds.'  M  He  was 
even  experimenting  with  plaster-of-Paris  as  a  fertilizer,  and  with  new 
breeds  of  cattle  and  hogs.  'I  write  to  remind  you  of  the  cantalope  seed, 
which  you  promised  me,'  he  informed  Tazewell  in  April,  1827.  'It  is 
a  fruit  of  which  I  am  very  fond.'  *  He  was  in  the  field  from  sunrise  to 
sunset,  coming  home  in  the  evening  hot,  dirty,  tired,  and  completely  happy. 
Between  Congressional  sessions,  at  least,  it  was  almost  possible  for  him 
to  forget  that  he  was  Vice-President  of  the  United  States. 

Had  Calhoun  ceased  to  be  interested  in  'politicks,'  however,  he  would 
have  ceased  to  be  Calhoun.  Physical  labor  alone  was  not  enough  to  ab- 
sorb his  energies,  and  the  more  he  threw  himself  into  the  farmer's  life, 
the  more  aware  he  was  of  how  gravely  that  life  was  threatened. 

'You  are  not  incorrect  in  supposing  .  .  .  that  as  much  devoted  as  I 
am  to  agriculture,  which  without  affectation  is  my  favorite  pursuit,*  he 
admitted  to  Tazewell,  'I  am  not  so  actually  absorbed  ...  as  to  have  my 
attention  wholly  diverted  from  public  affairs.  They  are  in  fact  intimately 
blended  .  .  .  among  the  reasons  of  my  attachment  to  agriculture  is, 
that  while  it  affords  sufficient  activity  for  health,  it  also  gives  leisure  for 
reflection  and  improvement.' 27 

Thus  he  summarized  his  creed.  But  he  derived  neither  comfort  nor 
relaxation  from  his  gloomy  thinking  through  that  summer  of  1827.  'The 
more  I  reflect,'  he  wrote  Tazewell,  'the  more  I  dispond.'  His  mind  was 
beset  with  the  problem  that  theoretically  or  practically  was  confronting 
every  thoughtful  Southerner.  The  question  was  'the  permanent  opera- 


180  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

tion  of  our  system,  particularly  as  affecting  the  great  agricultural  interest 
of  the  South/28 

His  own  bank  account  gave  him  ample  cause  for  concern.  He  was 
making  good  crops;  he  had  never  made  a  bad  crop  in  his  life.  It  was  no 
use.  So  far  as  his  finances  were  concerned,  he  might  as  well  have  remained 
in  Washington. 

He  outlined  his  plight  to  his  sympathetic  brother-in-law,  James:  'Our 
staples  scarcely  return  the  expense  of  cultivation.  .  .  .  Land  and  negroes 
have  fallen  to  the  lowest  price,  and  can  scarcely  be  sold  at  the  present 
depressed  rate.  .  .  .  My  means  have  been  exhausted.  .  .  .' M 

What  had  happened  to  him  he  knew  was  happening  to  the  whole 
South.  His  story  was  the  story  of  his  neighborhood,  and  it  was  the  same 
whether  told  in  the  firelight  of  a  hill-country  farmhouse,  or  on  the  pil- 
lared portico  of  a  Pendleton  mansion.  'Never,'  he  wrote,  'was  there  such 
universal  and  severe  pressure  on  the  .  .  .  South.'  To  what  did  he  at- 
tribute the  disaster?  'The  almost  universal  excitement  among  the  people 
of  the  staple  states,'  he  told  Monroe,  'they  almost  unanimously  attribute 
to  the  high  duties.'30 

Calhoun  shared  the  popular  opinion.  His  trumpeting  of  the  universal 
outcry  was  to  give  him  leadership;  it  reflects  less  credit  upon  his  under- 
standing. Undoubtedly  the  tariff  was  and  continued  to  be  fundamental 
in  the  South's  distress;  and  Calhoun's  powerful  analysis  of  its  ultimate 
results,  not  only  as  an  act  of  economic  injustice,  but  as  a  symbol  of  a 
majority  interest  trampling  down  the  rights  of  the  minority,  is  beyond 
challenge.  But  the  tariff  was  not  the  sole  cause. 

What  Calhoun  did  not  see,  what  he  was,  in  fact,  emotionally  incapable 
of  seeing,  was  the  role  of  the  cotton-slave  economy  in  the  falling  prices 
and  general  depression.  To  a  few,  the  acute  financial  failure  of  slavery  was 
already  apparent;  years  since,  John  Randolph  had  read  the  story  in  his 
own  Virginia,  in  the  worn-out  tobacco  lands,  and  the  great  families  im- 
poverished by  supporting  their  unemployed  and  fast-breeding  slaves.31 
Now,  in  South  Carolina,  prices  were  falling  because  land  was  becoming 
worthless  and  Negroes  too  plentiful  to  be  of  value. 

The  advent  of  the  cotton  gin  had  spelled  disaster.  With  the  mills  of 
Manchester  and  Lowell,  of  Lancashire  and  Liverpool,  damoring  for  cotton, 
cotton,  and  more  cotton,  the  South  was  exporting  its  topsoil  in  every  bale. 
The  small  cotton  farmer  was  doomed;  either  he  became  rich  quickly  and 
abandoned  his  exhausted  acres  for  virgin  soil  to  the  West  or  he  sank  into 
profitless  cropping  and  poverty. 

The  South  was  caught  in  a  relentless  treadmill.  The  demands  of  the 
cotton  mills  meant  more  Negroes  to  work  more  land  to  raise  more  cotton; 
and  the  ensuing  rapid  breeding  of  the  slave  population  as  rapidly  de- 
creased its  value.  Hence  was  created  a  demand  for  new  slave  territories, 
so  that  there  would  be  new  markets  for  slaves.  Here,  indeed,  were  the 


XH  A   UNIONIST   COMES   HOME  181 

germs  of  ultimate  abolition,  for  a  system,  never  generally  condoned  in 
a  free  country,  was  becoming  more  and  more  intolerable  as  it  overflowed 
its  old  boundaries  and  competed  with  the  cheap  labor  westward. 

That  Calhoun  understood  the  danger  of  one-crop  cotton  planting,  his 
own  efforts  at  soil  conservation  prove.  But  there  is  no  evidence  that, 
either  in  youth  or  in  age,  he  perceived  the  interrelationship  of  the  cotton- 
slave  economy.  Yet  on  the  danger  of  the  tariff  system,  his  vision  was 
flawlessly  clear.  And  out  of  his  reflections  came  the  realization  of  the 
'weak  point  of  our  system.  .  .  .  The  part  least  guarded'  under  the  Con- 
stitution required  'the  strongest  guard.'  What  was  the  remedy  'against  the 
encroachments  of  'a  combined  geographical  interest'?  82  Some  'negative'  or 
'veto'  power  must  be  found. 

Yet  he  hesitated.  What  troubled  him  were  'the  peculiar  minor  inter- 
ests' which  would  remain  unprotected;  and  also  the  question  of  'how  far 
such  a  negative  would  be  found  consistent  with  the  general  power  .  .  . 
an  important  consideration  which  I  waive  for  the  present.'  That  such  a 
negative  power  would  exist,  were  it  not  for  the  Judiciary  Act  of  1789,  he 
was  convinced.  That  Act  had  wrought  'an  entire  change  in  the  operation 
of  our  system.'  Without  it,  each  government  would  have  had  'a  negative 
on  the  other.'  He  hammered  questions  at  Tazewell.  How  had  Congress  hap- 
pened to  adopt  the  Act?  Did  it  respect  state  sovereignty?  Would  a  veto 
wielded  by  an  important  'interest'  be  consistent  with  the  Constitution? 
If  not,  how  could  'a  great  local  interest'  be  defended  or  controlled?  w 

The  Virginian's  answers  must  have  been  sobering.  'I  see  and  feel,  deeply 
feel,  the  difficulties  which  you  have  so  clearly  stated,'  Calhoun  replied  to 
him.  'I  ...  am  unwilling  to  consider  them  insuperable.  ...  I  have  given 
them  much  thought  during  the  summer,  but  confess  I  do  not  see  my  way 
clear.'  Nevertheless,  he  contended,  'the  acknowledged  theory  of  our  sys- 
tem' shows  the  states  'as  sovereign  and  independent  as  to  their  reserved 
rights,  as  the  Union  is  to  the  delegated.'  He  would  'go  over  the  whole 
ground'  with  Tazewell  when  they  met  in  Washington.84 


More  interesting  even  than  the  labor  pains  of  nullification,  which  the 
Tazewell-Calhoun  correspondence  so  vividly  illuminates,  is  the  troubled 
and  uncertain  state  of  mind  in  which  Calhoun  gave  birth  to  the  doctrine. 
From  these  letters  it  is  apparent  that  the  reason  he  defended  nullification 
with  such  passionate  intensity  was  not  because  he  believed  it  to  be  a  fault- 
less system,  but  because  of  what  seemed  to  him  its  sheer  necessity.  As 
he  had  admitted,  he  not  only  saw  but  felt,  and  felt  far  too  deeply.  To 
Monroe,  one  year  after  his  letters  to  Tazewell,  he  stated  flatly:  'It  seems 
to  me  that  we  have  no  ...  check  against  abuses,  but  such  as  grow  out 


182  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

of  responsibility,  or  elections.  .  .  .'85  This  he  could  write  in  July,  1828; 
one  month  later  he  had  surrendered  completely  to  the  most  extreme  limits 
of  the  nullification  doctrine. 

He  was  desperate.  The  safety  of  the  South  was  at  stake.  Even  Jackson 
had  been  compelled  to  give  tacit  lip-service  to  the  protectionists,  though 
where  Jackson  really  stood,  no  one  knew;  and  probably  least  of  all, 
himself. 

Calhoun  did  much  floor-pacing  those  summer  nights,  up  and  down,  up 
and  down  his  great  central  hallway.  Often  it  was  past  three  before  he 
dropped  iifto  his  bed  for  a  couple  of  hours;  then  he  would  be  up  and  at 
his  thoughts  again.36  He  refused  to  admit  there  could  be  no  way  out. 
From  his  letters  we  can  see  the  workings  of  his  mind.  If  the  Judiciary  Act 
of  1789  had  wrought  a  change  in  the  American  system,  weakening  the 
rights  of  the  states,  then  the  change  must  be  reversed.  The  system  must  be 
restored  to  its  'original  purity.' 

Calhoun's  genius  lay  in  his  penetration  of  cause  and  effect;  his  con- 
clusions were  not  always  so  much  a  result  of  logic  as  of  the  basic  forces 
of  history.  He  was  far  from  being  blind  to  the  spirit  of  the  age.  So  far 
as  economic  forces  went,  no  man  was  more  aware  of  it.  It  may  be  exag- 
geration to  say  that  Calhoun  'suffered  his  very  soul  to  be  ground  to 
powder'  between  the  millstones  of  his  emotional  desires  and  his  logical 
realizations,  but  there  is  truth  in  the  general  principle.87  In  the  same  vein, 
an  early  biographer  commented  that  Calhoun  would  have  been  a  far  hap- 
pier and  healthier  man  had  he  been  less  tortured  by  his  relentless  vision.38 

He  faced  the  tariff  question,  as  he  was  later  to  face  slavery,  aware  of 
the  threat  it  implied,  and  prepared  to  rip  it  out  by  the  roots.  It  marked 
the  country  off  into  sections,  and  in  sectionalism  Calhoun  could  see  only 
an  ever-increasing  menace  to  the  permanence  of  the  Union.  'It  is  danger- 
ous,' he  wrote  Monroe,  'to  see  the  country  divided  as  it  is  by  sections, 
and  almost  unanimously  in  regard  to  every  great  measure,  particularly 
when  it  may  be  supposed  to  originate  in  the  spirit  of  gain  on  one  side 
at  the  expense  of  the  other.' S9  To  Tazewell  he  had  been  even  more  ex- 
plicit. 'On  virtually  every  important  question  of  government,'  he  pointed 
out,  'no  two  distinct  nations  can  be  more  opposed  than  this  [the  staple 
states]  and  the  other  sections.'40 

The  federal  character  of  the  American  Union,  Calhoun  believed,  would 
necessitate  a  veto  power  wielded  by  the  individual  state  rather  than  by 
the  section  or  interest  affected.  Only  in  later  years,  when  the  impotency 
of  the  individual  states  endangered  the  effectiveness  of  their  protest,  did 
Calhoun  submit  to  the  inevitable,  and  organize  the  region  as  a  conserva- 
tive check  within  the  Union.  For  to  Calhoun  the  continued  existence  of 
the  Union  depended  on  an  effective  protest,  without  which  he  saw  that 
the  Southern  states  would  secede.  As  he  would  explain  more  specifically 
to  his  friend,  James  Hammond,  in  1831,  either  nullification  by  one  state 


XH  A  UNIONIST   COMES  HOME  183 

or  a  united  protest  by  the  entire  South  would  suffice;  but  the  danger  of 
united  action  was  that,  misdirected,  its  very  strength  might  rend  the 
Union  apart. 

Despite  his  fears  Calhoun  was  driven  on.  Even  had  he  desired  to  stand 
by,  he  would  have  had  no  chance.  For  all  through  the  summer  months 
of  1827  and  1828,  he  was  besieged  by  up-country  leaders  and  low-country 
planters,  begging  his  aid  in  finding  a  way  out.41 


Actually  the  'nullification  crisis,'  as  it  came  to  be  called,  derived  very 
little  from  Calhoun's  abstract  doctrine.  Mentally  and  emotionally,  South 
Carolina  was  already  an  armed  camp;  nullification  was  the  result,  not 
the  cause.  And  the  man  who  was  whipping  the  tempers  of  South  Carolina 
into  flame  was  not  Calhoun,  but  thirty-five-year-old  George  McDuffie. 

His  had  been  a  lonely  and  strange  career.  It  had  been  Calhoun's  older 
brothers,  William  and  James,  who  discovered  this  boy  store  clerk  and 
blacksmith's  apprentice,  and  sent  him  to  Dr.  Waddel's  school  and  to  the 
South  Carolina  College.  Within  three  years  of  his  admission  to  the  bar, 
McDuffie  was  'the  coming  man  of  the  South.'  Emotionally  his  powers 
were  'convulsive.'  Like  Calhoun  he  had  moments  when  he  came  dan- 
gerously near  to  hypnotism,  and  he  shared  the  older  man's  quality  of 
'logic  set  on  fire.'  42  To  some  this  dark,  slender  man,  with  his  'cavalier's 
head/  deep-set  blue  eyes,  and  tight  fists  beating  at  the  air,  seemed  'beauti- 
ful as  an  angel,'  and  a  Northern  observer  commented,  'I  never  heard 
such  eloquence  flow  from  the  lips  of  mortal  man.' ** 

Elected  to  Congress  at  thirty-one,  like  Calhoun  he  defied  John  Randolph 
almost  from  the  day  he  took  his  seat.  Upon  the  astounded  Virginian  he 
poured  a  torrent  of  abuse  so  'witheringly  pungent'  that  the  enraged  Ran- 
dolph walked  out  of  the  Chamber  and  almost  sent  him  a  challenge.  'Lay 
on,  McDuff ,'  chanted  the  press  admiringly.44 

Despite  rustic  manners  and  sleeves  'out  at  the  elbows,'  McDuffie's 
talents  gained  him  'admission  into  exclusive  South  Carolina  society/  He 
wooed  and  won  a  Charleston  belle,  Mary  Rebecca  Singleton.  One  year 
later,  she  lay  dead  beside  their  newborn  child.  McDuffie,  grim,  bitter, 
fighting  off  paralysis  from  an  old  dueling  wound,  withdrew  into  his  lone- 
liness. Such  of  himself  as  he  cared  for  the  world  to  see,  he  threw  into 
the  'passionate  frenzy'  of  his  speeches. 

These  speeches  were  no  mere  reflections  of  Calhoun;  they  were  spurs  in 
bis  sides.  It  was  McDuffie,  not  Calhoun,  who  was  lashing  the  people  of 
South  Carolina  into  such  fury  at  their  peril  that  a  near-majority  was  ready 
to  lead  the  state  into  secession  then  and  there.  It  was  McDuffie  who  was 
charging  up  and  down  the  state  all  through  the  summer  of  1828,  calling 


184  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

for  rebellion,  revolution,  and  forcible  resistance.  It  was  McDuffie  who 
fathered  the  famed  '40  bale  theory/  contending  that  under  the  Tariff  of 
Abominations  the  South  was,  in  effect,  giving  the  North  forty  out  of 
every  one  hundred  bales  she  raised.  At  Columbia  he  surpassed  himself. 
Before  a  tensely  expectant  group  he  stood,  ripped  off  his  broadcloth  coat, 
tossed  it  to  the  ground.  'Doff  this  golden  tissue,'  he  shrieked.  'It  is  fit  only 
for  slaves! ' 45 


And  thus,  during  the  long  summer  days  of  1828,  South  Carolina's  mem- 
orable Exppsition  and  Protest  was  evolved.  While  South  Carolina  was 
criticizing  Calhoun  for  his  indifference  to  her  plight,  he  was  hard  at  work 
on  the  doctrine  which  startled  the  nation  with  its  declaration  that  a  single 
state,  having  entered  the  Union  for  the  preservation  of  its  liberties,  could 
and  would  determine  when  the  federal  government  had  violated  those 
liberties. 

Just  who  the  leaders  were  who  lounged  with  Calhoun  on  the  long  pil- 
lared porch  of  Clergy  Hall*  that  summer  is  uncertain.  First  among 
them  was  probably  Charleston's  little  'Jimmy'  Hamilton,  forty-two  years 
old,  a  Major  in  the  War  of  1812,  now  Brigadier-General,  commanding 
twenty-seven  thousand  well-trained  state  troops.  So  wealthy  that  he 
owned  fourteen  cotton  plantations,  so  hot-tempered  that  he  is  reputed 
to  have  fought  fourteen  duels,  he  could  control  the  passions  of  a  mob 
as  skillfully  as  Calhoun  mastered  the  intellects  of  its  leaders.  Yet  Hamil- 
ton, too,  had  a  mind,  cool  and  clear  as  his  emotions  were  hot.  He  would 
be  the  campaign  manager  of  nullification,  organize  the  dubs,  word  the 
theories  in  popular  language,  unflinchingly,  as  Governor,  face  the  pos- 
sibilities of  civil  war,  but  then  and  later  he  considered  secession  uncalled- 
for  and  revolutionary.  Of 'the  value  of  nullification,  however,  he  had  no 
doubts,  at  all.  'He  who  dallies  is  a  dastard;  he  who  doubts  is  damned.'46 

Equally  vehement  was  the  young  up-countryman,  Francis  Pickens, 
glowering  of  eye  and  brow,  arrogantly  proud  of  his  ancestry,  his  learning, 
and  his  abilities:  his  boast,  'I  have  never  made  myself  what  the  world 
calls  popular/  In  his  calmer  moments  he  could  say,  'As  long  as  we  are  in 
the  Union,  I  .  ,  .  believe  it  our  duty  to  discharge  all  our  obligations  .  .  . 
under  it.  ...  Our  people  have  been  educated  to  compacts  and  chartered 
rights,  as  a  substitute  for  the  sword/  But  he  was  for  'war  up  to  the  hilt,' 47 
if  nullification  failed. 

Silent  and  attentive  as  befitted  his  twenty-one  years  was  James  H.  Ham- 
mond, cotton  planter  and  slavery  champion,  who  within  two  years  would 
be  editing  the  nullification  paper,  the  Southern  Times,  and  horse-whipping 

*  Rechristened  Fort  Hill  in  1830.  (See  A,  G.  Holmes,  'John  C.  Calhoun,'  Southern 
Magazine,  II,  No.  10,  1936.) 


XH          A  UNIONIST   COMES  HOME  185 

a  Camden  editor  who  chanced  to  disagree  with  him.  Like  his  friend, 
Robert  Barnwell  Rhett,  who  had  not  yet  been  won  over  to  'peaceful, 
Constitutional  Nullification,'  Hammond  already  despaired  of  the  Union; 
for  twenty  years  he  was  to  aim  at  secession  or  Southern  nation-wide 
dominance. 

From  Charleston  would  have  come  Robert  Young  Hayne,  for  his  was 
to  be  the  responsibility  of  presenting  nullification  on  the  floor  of  Con- 
gress, of  which  he  had  this  year  said:  'The  time  is  at  hand  when  these 
seats  will  be  filled  by  the  owners  of  manufacturing  establishments.'  Legis- 
lative interests  were  no  doubt  represented  by  the  tall,  bushy-haired,  up- 
country  Andrew  Butler,  later  Calhoun's  Senatorial  colleague.  And  present 
in  spirit,  if  not  in  his  fat,  aging  flesh,  was  Thomas  Cooper  of  Charleston, 
professor  at  the  South  Carolina  College,  teacher  of  a  generation  of  South- 
ern hot-heads.  His  pamphlets  of  a  few  years  before,  denouncing  Calhoun 
for  his  consolidating  tendencies  and  warning  of  inherent  dangers  in  the 
Constitution,  had  won  him  a  hearing  throughout  the  South;  and  already 
he  was  urging  his  followers  to  'calculate'  the  value  of  the  Union.  Cooper 
valued  the  Union  'too  little,  because  he  loved  liberty  too  well.' 48 

These,  then,  were  the  leaders.  Most  of  them  were  young;  all  hot-headed; 
all  aristocrats  by  choice  if  not  by  origin.  That  they  represented  South 
Carolina  public  opinion  is  questionable;  that  they  represented  the  gov- 
erning opinion  is  undeniable.  Calhoun  could  lead  them;  he  could  not 
always  control  them.  He  drew  them  together,  fused  their  diversities, 
through  them  he  held  the  impetuous  state  in  check.  His  was  the  task  of 
allaying  the  common  grievance,  of  substituting  a  practical  remedy  for  the 
hopeless  submission  of  the  Unionists  and  the  reckless  defiance  of  the 
Secessionists,  of  directing  'the  eye  of  the  State  to  the  Constitution  .  .  . 
for  the  redress  of  its  wrongs.' 49 

And  it  was  to  the  Constitution  that  he  and  the  leaders  looked,  to  the 
Constitution  in  what  Calhoun  called  its  'emphatically  American'  federal 
character.  They  looked  to  the  old  South  Carolina  legislative  compromise, 
in  which  the  back-country  and  the  coast,  'two  great  interests,'  were  given 
equal  recognition  in  determining  state  policy.  South  Carolina  had  a  gov- 
ernment 'of  the  entire  population  .  .  .  not  of  one  portion  .  .  .  over  an- 
other portion';  w  and  this,  to  Calhoun,  was  an  example  of  the  concurrent 
rather  than  the  numerical  majority,  of  justice  for  minority  groups. 

The  precedents  of  nullification  were,  at  least,  wholly  American.  Had  not 
Madison's  Virginia  Resolutions  proclaimed  that  when  a  state  deemed  a  law 
unconstitutional,  it  was  in  duty  bound  to  'interpose'  to  protect  its  lib- 
erties? Had  not  the  Kentucky  Resolutions  of  Thomas  Jefferson  asserted 
that  the'  right  of  judging  was  an  essential  attribute  of  sovereignty,  and 
that  'In  all  cases  of  compact  between  parties  having  no  common  judge  * 

*  To  the  Nullifiers  the  Supreme  Court  was  entirely  the  creature  of  the  national 
government,  no  common  judge  between  the  government  and  the  states. 


186  JOHN   C.   CAZHOUN 

each  party'  could  decide  for  itself?  Bold  words  these,  proud  words;  but 
whether  or  not,  as  Daniel  Webster  believed,  the  plan  of  a  Southern  Con- 
federacy was  already  under  consideration  by  more  radical  Southern  lead- 
ers,51 Calhoun  was  right  in  preferring  a  struggle  over  the  question-marks 
and  evasions  of  the  Constitution  than  one  on  the  fields  of  battle.  On  one 
matter  he  was  determined.  If  the  South  were  made  to  suffer  the  disad- 
vantages of  the  Constitution,  she  would  also  reap  its  advantages. 


The  result  of  Calhoun's  thinking  was  a  lengthy  report  to  the  South  Caro- 
lina Legislature,  which  with  a  few  revisions  was  published  in  December, 
1828,  and  became  known  as  The  Exposition  and  Protest.  It  attracted  little 
initial  attention.52  It  was  not  remarkable  for  its  readability,  yet  its  im- 
portance can  hardly  be  overestimated. 

All  that  the  prophet  John  Randolph  had  foreseen,  all  that  the  back- 
country  farmers  had  feared,  Calhoun  now  saw.  He  saw  a  'permanent 
economic  conflict' w  between  North  and  South,  the  North  determined  to 
become  industrial,  the  South  resolved  to  remain  agricultural;  the  South 
demanding  free  trade  in  an  open  market,  the  North  demanding  exclusion 
of  foreign  competition.  'We  are  the  serfs  of  the  system/  the  Exposition 
declared,  'out  of  whose  labor  is  raised  not  only  the  money  paid  into  the 
Treasury,  but  the  funds  out  of  which  are  drawn  the  rich  rewards  of  the 
manufacturers/  To  the  'growers  of  cotton,  rice,  and  tobacco/  it  was 
the  same  whether  the  government  took  one-third  of  what  they  raised  for 
the  privilege  'of  sending  the  other  two-thirds  abroad,  or  one-third  of  the 
iron,  salt,  sugar,  coffee,  cloth,  and  other  articles/  they  required,  'in  ex- 
change for  the  liberty  of  bringing  them  home/  The  Southern  farmer  paid 
for  the  Northern  manufacturer's  protection  against  foreign  competition 
by  a  loss  of  his  own  capacity  to  compete  in  the  world  market.  And  on 
the  world  market  his  very  livelihood  depended.  Not  one-quarter  of  the 
Southern  agricultural  output  could  be  consumed  in  the  United  States 
alone. 

Would  not  Europe  answer  'prohibition  by  prohibition/  clamping  high 
duties  on  Southern  rice  and  cotton?  'Commercial  warfare'  would  mark 
the  end  of  that  system  of  barter  and  exchange  under  which  Europe  and 
the  South  had  traded  for  so  long.  With  three-quarters  of  her  markets 
destroyed,  the  South  would  be  forced  to  sell  her  surpluses  to  the  North 
at  any  price  'the  manufacturers  might  choose  to  give.'  Truly  had  Cal- 
houn spoken  when  he  warned  that  the  tariff  could  reduce  the  'South 
to  poverty  or  a  complete  change  of  industry/ 

With  their  foreign  trade  gone,  the  Southern  people  would  be  com- 
pelled to  abandon  the  culture  of  rice,  indigo,  and  cotton,  and  become  'the 


XH  A  UNIONIST   COMES   HOME  187 

rivals,  instead  of  the  customers  of  the  manufacturing  States.'  Yet  this 
would  only  mean  'ruin  in  another  form.'  For  if  manufacturing  should 
take  root  in  the  South,  the  North  'by  superior  capital  and  skill'  would 
'keep  down  successful  competition.  .  .  .  We  would  be  doomed  to  toil  at 
our  unprofitable  agriculture,  selling  on  a  limited  market.'  Otherwise, 
'those  who  now  make  war  on  our  gains  would  make  it  on  our  labor! 

To  a  moderate  tariff  system  for  revenue,  affording  incidental  protec- 
tion, the  South  would  agree.  'We  have  suffered  too  much  to  desire  to  see 
others  afflicted,  even  for  our  relief,  when  it  can  possibly  be  avoided.  We 
would  rejoice  to  see  our  manufacturers  flourish  on  any  constitutional 
principle,  consistent  with  justice,'  **  which  to  Calhoun  was  the  binding 
element  of  the  Constitution.  But  here  was  the  crux  of  the  matter.  A  uni- 
form law  for  the  whole  nation  could  act  with  great  injustice.  Alexander 
Hamilton  had  understood.  Society,  the  great  Federalist  leader  had  writ- 
ten, must  not  only  'guard  against  the  oppression  of  its  rulers,  but  .  .  . 
guard  one  part  .  .  „  against  the  injustice  of  the  other  part.  ...  If  a 
majority  be  united  by  a  common  interest,  the  .  .  .  minority  will  be  un- 
safe."55 

Now  a  majority  had  united  in  their  own  common  interest.  But  did  not 
our  whole  political  system  rest  'on  the  great  principle  involved  in  the 
recognized  diversity  of  geographical  interests?'  Was  a  free  government 
established  for  the  general  welfare,  or  merely  as  an  'instrument  of  ag- 
grandizement ...  to  transfer  the  power  and  property  of  one  class  or 
section  to  another'?  Calhoun  warned:  'No  government  based  on  the  naked 
principle  that  the  majority  ought  to  govern,  however  true  the  maxim  .  .  . 
under  proper  restraint,  can  preserve  its  liberty,  even  for  a  single  genera- 
tion.' 

But  theory  was  nothing  without  the  means  of  putting  it  into  practice. 
The  Constitution  provided  the  remedy — for  the  national  government,  the 
Supreme  Court,  to  prevent  encroachments  by  the  states;  for  the  states, 
their  'right  ...  to  interpose  to  protect  their  reserved  powers.'  Critics 
might  object  that  there  was  no  'express  provision'  for  such  action  in  the 
Constitution;  what  of  the  Supreme  Court's  power  to  declare  laws  uncon- 
stitutional? This  was  not  specifically  provided  for — likewise,  interposition 
by  the  states  was  to  be  'inferred  from  the  simple  fact  that  it  is  not  dele- 
gated' w  to  the  national  government. 


8 

A  sheer  declaration  of  anarchy,  nullification  appeared  to  its  critics:  Cal- 
houn himself  did  not  shrink  from  the  fact  that  he  was  giving  publicity 
to  doctrines  which  a  large  majority  would  consider  'new  and  dangerous.'57 
Unflinchingly  he  pointed  out  how  far  a  sovereign  state  could  go  if  pressed 


188  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

beyond  endurance.  Yet  he  was  too  realistic  to  imagine  it  conceivable  that 
a  state  could  remain  in  the  Union  in  outright  violation  of  the  Union's 
laws.  Nullification  did  not  suspend  a  law  for  the  nation,  but  only  within 
the  state  that  protested.  It  was  not  an  end  in  itself,  but  a  method  of  ap- 
peal. It  gave  opportunity  for  three-quarters  of  the  states  in  convention 
to  determine  whether  or  not  to  confer  the  questioned  power  upon  the 
Union  by  constitutional  amendment.  The  nullifying  state  would  then  have 
to  obey — or  secede. 

It  may  be  that  the  abstract  principle  of  nullification  was  like  starting 
over  a  waterfall  in  a  canoe  and  calling  'halt'  halfway  down.  But  Cal- 
houn  realized  that  principles  are  seldom  carried  to  their  ultimate  extremes. 
The  calling  of  a  Constitutional  Convention,  'the  delay — the  deliberation,' 
the  national  ambitions  of  state  leaders  and  minority  opinions  'within  the 
State,'  all  would  render  this  'reserved  power'  a  rare  power  to  be  invoked 
or  used.  'Nothing  but  truth  and  a  deep  sense  of  oppression'  would  justify 
such  action;  otherwise,  it  would  result  'in  the  expulsion  of  those  in  power.' 
The  weakness  of  his  argument,  as  historians  have  generally  realized,  is 
that  with  the  states  the  ultimate  source  of  power,  should  a  quarter  of 
them  nullify  a  law  that  was  clearly  constitutional,  there  would  be  noth- 
ing the  other  states  could  do. 

Calhoun  must  have  known  that  he  would  fail.  He  signed  the  death- 
warrant  of  his  own  doctrine  by  his  honest  admission  that  under  protection 
'the  capitalist  .  .  .  the  merchant,  and  the  laborer  in  the  manufacturing 
States  would  all  ...  receive  higher  rates  of  wages  and  profits';  that  with 
free  trade,  'to  meet  European  competition  they  would  be  compelled  to 
work  at  the  lowest  wages  and  profits.'  Thus  was  the  irreconcilable  nature 
of  the  conflict  revealed. 

Yet,  in  the  long  run,  he  was  right.  He  knew  that  the  so-called  'American 
System'  was  merely  the  old  European  system  that  would  'ultimately  di- 
vide society.'  He  saw  the  inevitable  rise  of  a  politically  dominant  'moneyed 
aristocracy.'  'After  we  are  exhausted,'  ran  his  somber  warning,  'the  con- 
test will  be  between  the  capitalists  and  the  operatives,'  The  system  would 
eventually  destroy  'much  more  than  it  would  transfer.'  A  tariff  could 
subsidize  industry  at  the  South's  expense — a  tariff  could  build  producing 
power,  but  what  about  purchasing  power?  Could  the  North  remain  rich 
by  keeping  the  South  poor?  'For  the  present,'  he  conceded,  'all  was 
flourishing,' 5S  and  'what  people  would  forego  practical  gains  in  the  present 
for  hypothetical  losses  in  the  future?' 


To  James  Parton,  writing  in  the  aftermath  of  the  Civil  War,  Calhoun's 
somber  warning  seemed  little  short  of  lunacy.59  To  later  generations  it 
appeared  more  like  prophecy.  For  all  that  it  feared  and  forecast,  the 


XH          A  UNIONIST   COMES  HOME  189 

draining  of  the  wealth  of  both  the  West  and  the  South  into  the  coffers  of 
the  East,  linking  political  and  financial  control;  the  subjugation  of  agri- 
culture to  the  demands  of  the  manufacturers;  the  'backward'  Southern 
industries,  the  'war  on  the  Southern  system  of  labor5 — all  were  to  come 
about  as  inevitably  as  the  solution  to  a  problem  in  mathematics.  So- 
ciologists, writing  of  the  South  a  century  afterward,  all  but  duplicated 
Calhoun's  words. 

Eighty  years  after  Calhoun's  last  warnings  were  whispered,  it  would  be 
admitted  that  the  South  had  become  the  nation's  'number  one  economic 
problem,'  with  slaveholding  abolished,  but  not  slavery,  with  eight  million 
poor  whites,  besides  the  blacks,  huddling  in  rickety  shacks,  driven  out  to 
shift  for  themselves  when  the  cotton  market  fell,  living  on  cornmeal  and 
molasses  in  a  squalor  few  masters  would  have  permitted  to  their  slaves.* 

It  is  true  that  throughout  Southern  history  the  North  has  most  con- 
veniently served  as  public  whipping-boy  for  innumerable  Southern  sins.  It 
is  equally  true  that  after  the  Civil  War,  many  Southern  leaders,  such  as 
James  Orr  of  South  Carolina  and  Henry  W.  Grady  of  Georgia,  honestly 
believed  that  the  agrarian  system  had  been  wrong,  and  that  the  South 
should  adopt  the  economy  of  the  victors.  Nevertheless,  the  Old  South 
died,  not  entirely  of  its  own  internal  diseases — including  the  cancer  of 
slavery — but  from  conquest  and  destruction.  In  addition  to  the  tribe  who 
sold  out  their  own  section  and  their  own  birthright  for  a  few  crumbs 
from  the  Northern  capitalists'  table,  there  were  the  thousands  who  by 
conquest  alone  were  compelled  to  do  so.  The  embryonic  mills,  the  power 
sites,  the  mines,  the  virgin  woodlands  and  cotton  lands  had  to  be  sold  at 
fractional  value  or  pledged  as  collateral  to  finance  capitalists,  who  for 
their  own  profit  were  trying  to  develop  the  South  industrially.  Appomattox 
had  fixed  the  pattern  of  Southern  industrial  development. 

With  the  last  barriers  shattered  by  the  guns  of  the  Civil  War,  a  half- 
century  sufficed  for  ownership  of  Southern  railroad  companies,  public 
utilities,  natural  gas,  oil,  and  metal  ore,  'transportation,  communication, 
financial,  manufacturing,  mining,  and  finally  distributing  corporations  .  .  . 
to  be  largely  held  in  the  great  cities  of  the  North  East* 60  By  Nature 
'blessed  with  immense  wealth/  the  Southern  people  would  be  found  'the 
poorest  in  the  country.'  Barred,  not  only  by  tariff,  but  by  credit  and 
freight-rate  barriers  from  equal  industrial  development,  the  region  'would 
mine  its  natural  riches  for  goods  manufactured  elsewhere.'  Through  ab- 
sentee ownership  many  of  its  natural  resources  were  left  undeveloped, 
artificially  held  out  of  competition  with  resources  in  other  sections.  'Pe- 
nalized for  being  rural,  handicapped  in  its  efforts  to  industrialize,'  Amer- 

*  Letter  from  an  Alamance  County,  North  Carolina,  farmer,  September  14,  1939 
(in  possession  of  the  author) :  'Country  folks  in  this  locality  have  a  three-meal  ration 
of  side  meat  (hog-belly)  sorgum  molasses  and  cornbread.  No  variety  and  plenty 
pellegra.  So  it  is  —  the  poor  must  starve.' 


190  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

ica's  'greatest  untapped  business  market,'  wanting  to  buy,  needing  to  buy, 
was  unable  to  buy.81 

Specifically,  of  course,  Calhoun's  grim  warning  that  the  North  would 
keep  down  successful  Southern  industrial  competition  was  prophecy  for 
only  ninety  years.  Since  1920,  the  tables  have  been  turned.  Belated  dis- 
covery that  cheap  labor,  cheap  power,  and  cheap  real  estate  were  all  ob- 
tainable at  the  source  of  the  raw  materials  made  manufactures  boom 
in  some  parts  of  the  South  and  began  draining  New  England  of  her  live- 
lihood and  prosperity.*  Yet,  in  general,  the  pattern  of  1865  was  still  un- 
altered. Modern  Southern  industrial  development  was  still  superimposed 
and  colonial;  profits  and  ownership  still  flowed  to  New  York  City.  As 
late  as  1945  in  the  full  tide  of  wartime  prosperity,  it  could  be  said  with- 
out denial  by  Hodding  Carter  in  The  Saturday  Evening  Post  that  'The 
South  and  West  .  .  .  still  live  in  economic  subordination  to  a  handful 
of  Eastern  States.'62  And  Ellis  Arnall,  writing  in  the  Atlantic,  could 
wonder  when  'these  two  great  areas'  would  be  'no  longer  regarded  as 
colonial  appendages  to  be  exploited  and  drained  of  all  wealth  for  the 
support  of  an  Eastern  industrial  empire.'63  Behind  the  very  secession 
movement  had  been  the  belief  that  if  industrialism  got  control  of  the 
federal  government,  it  would  not  only  'exploit  agriculture,'  but  direct 
the  pattern  of  Southern  industrial  growth,  to  the  sacrifice  of  the  South's 
freedom  of  choice.  'Today,'  wrote  Frank  Owsley,  'we  ...  witness  the 
fulfillment  of  John  C.  Calhoun.'  ** 

Nullification  was  more  than  logic-chopping.  It  was  built  on  a  premise, 
a  premise  that  the  North's  superior  voting  power  would  destroy  the  eco- 
nomic life  of  the  South,  a  premise  of  which  'the  Tariff  of  Abominations 
was  the  proof.' 65  It  was  Calhoun's  battle  for  social  values,  for  a  civiliza- 
tion which  he  sincerely  thought  to  be  as  perfect  as  man  could  devise, 
and  which  he  saw  endangered  by  forces  which,  in  common  with  Jefferson, 
he  believed  were  in  contradiction  to  all  right  living  and  a  vital  threat 
to  the  very  liberties  the  Union  had  been  formed  to  preserve.  It  was  Cal- 
houn's supreme  battle  in  defense  of  the  minority,  not  only  the  South  of 
his  day,  but  all  the  shifting  minorities  in  the  complex  Union  of  the  future. 

Beside  the  immensity  of  this  question,  the  Presidential  contest  of  1828 
was  'but  an  incident  ...  the  means  of  a  reformation  which  must  take 
place.'  Yet  Calhoun  must  have  known  that  it  would  not  take  place;  that 
it  was  vain  to  dream  of  'a  returning  sense  of  justice  on  the  part  of  the 
majority,' 66  or  of  agreement  with  his  thesis  on  the  part  of  Andrew  Jack-* 
son.  A  practical  politician,  Calhoun  understood  that,  with  an  election  at 
stake,  whatever  Jackson's  personal  feelings,  the  vote  of  protectionist 
Pennsylvania  was  worth  far  more  than  that  of  little  South  Carolina.  And 
what  would  be  his  own  weight  with  Jackson  against  the  weight  of  a 
whole  interest,  a  whole  section  of  the  country? 

*  Vide  the  Textron  row  of  1948,  as  a  single  example. 


XEI  A  UNIONIST   COMES   HOME  191 

Yet,  if  there  was  little  to  hope  for  from  Jackson,  from  his  rival,  Adams, 
there  was  even  less.  The  election  was  but  a  weak  chance,  but  that  chance 
must  not  be  endangered.  Hence,  the  Exposition  must  be  held  in  abeyance, 
and  the  fact  of  Calhoun's  authorship  with  it,*  for  if  he  lost  the  Vice- 
Presidency,  what  then  would  be  his  influence  with  Jackson?  So  South 
Carolina  waited,  as  the  election  returns  flowed  in — a  surging  tidal  wave, 
178  to  83 — for  Old  Hickory.  And  Calhoun  himself,  although  his  electoral 
vote  dropped  by  11  from  his  count  of  182  in  1824,  won  easily.  'Nominated 
unanimously'  by  the  Legislatures  of  Pennsylvania,  New  Jersey,  Ohio,  and 
Kentucky,  he  had  also  received  an  overwhelming  endorsement  from  the 
Old  Dominion,  which  he  felt  to  be  the  greatest  triumph  of  all.67 

Of  the  'rightful  power'  of  his  remedy,  he  had  no  doubts.  It  was  more 
than  a  right — it  was  'a  sacred  duty  to  the  Union,  to  the  cause  of  liberty 
over  the  world/  to  establish  the  principle  of  nullification.  In  pledging 
themselves  to  uphold  the  Constitution,  men  were  obliged  to  prevent  its 
violation.  'They  would  be  unworthy  of  the  name  of  freemen,  of  Amer- 
icans,— of  Carolinians  ...  if  danger  could  deter  them.3  6S 

'The  ground  we  have  taken/  Calhoun  wrote  his  friend,  Duff  Green,  'is 
that  the  tariff  is  unconstitutional  and  must  be  repealed,  that  the  rights  of 
the  South  have  been  destroyed,  and  must  be  restored,  that  the  Union  is 
in  danger,  and  must  be  saved.'69 

*  Calhoun  personally  was  willing  that  his  name  be  revealed.  See  Life,  p.  36. 


XIII 

Petty  Arts 


IF  GREAT  MEN  were  measured  by  their  success  with  women  rather  than 
with  statecraft,  the  history  books  would  be  far  less  cluttered.  There  was 
Washington,  for  instance;  forever  proposing  to  the  wrong  girls — the  ones 
who  would  not  give  him  a  second  glance — and  unable  to  confess  his 
feelings  to  the  one  woman  he  really  loved.  There  was  Thomas  Jefferson, 
an  affectionate  domestic  man  who  lived  nearly  forty  years  of  single  loneli- 
ness after  the  death  of  his  wife,  because  he  had  promised  her  that  he 
would  never  remarry.  There  was  Abraham  Lincoln.  And  there  was  John 
C.  Calhoun. 

Not  that  Calhoun  lacked  the  ability  to  please  women.  Indeed,  he  gave 
them  a  flattery  far  more  satisfying  than  the  usual  toasts  to  their  physical 
beauty.  His  appeal  was  to  their  minds.  Mrs.  Jefferson  Davis,  who  knew 
him  well,  wrote  that,  although  courteous,  he  had  not  a  trace  of  that  gal- 
lantry characteristic  of  the  period.  'He  spoke  to  a  girl  on  the  same  sub- 
jects as  to  a  statesman/1-  Mrs.  Davis  declared.  'He  paid  the  highest  com- 
pliment which  could  be  paid  to  a  woman/  according  to  another  female 
contemporary,  'by  recognizing  in  her  a  soul — a  soul  capable  of  under- 
standing and  appreciating.'2  But  attracting  and  understanding  are  two 
different  matters,  as  Calhoun  never  entirely  found  out — with  men  as  well 
as  with  women. 

His  power  over  men  was  undeniable.  His  courage,  both  moral  and 
physical,  won  their  unstinted  admiration.  His  lofty  principles  challenged 
the  imagination;  rallied  ardent  and  talented  followers  to  his  side.8  But 
here  indeed  was  the  trouble,  according  to  a  friend.  'As  a  practical  states- 
man, his  great  defect  was  that  he  pursued  principles  too  exclusively. 
Principles  are  unerring;  but  in  their  practice  and  application  ...  we 
have  to  deal  with  erring  man.' 4 

And,  incidentally,  women! 

To  Calhoun  the  world  operated  along  fixed  principles,  worked  out  ac- 
cording to  mathematical  formulae.  Now  there  are  such  things  as  fixed  prin- 
ciples. And  it  is  true  that  sometimes  men  are  reasonable  and  that  occa- 
sionally the  world  is  reasonable,  but  very  seldom  are  women  reasonable. 
And  here  Calhoun  made  his  error.  He  was  himself  too  charged  with  emo- 


XIH  PETTY  ARTS  193 

tion  to  deny  the  existence  of  caprice;  he  granted  its  power  in  determining 
human  conduct;  but  he  did  believe  that  in  the  end  reason  would  prevail. 
No  doubt  it  did  prevail  with  Calhoun,  who  had  forcibly  subjected  his 
emotions  to  his  intellect,  but  it  did  not  prevail  with  Andrew  Jackson  and 
it  did  not  prevail  with  Peggy  O'Neil  Timberlake.  Nor  did  it  prevail  with 
Floride  Cadhoun. 

Calhoun  was  reasonable.  To  him  women's  quarrels  were  unreasonable, 
and  hence  unimportant.  The  quarrels  of  women,'  he  wearily  remarked  at 
this  period,  'like  those  of  the  Medes  and  the  Persians,  admit  of  neither 
inquiry  nor  explanation.'5  Yet  a  quarrel  between  two  women  was  suf- 
ficiently important  to  shake  Calhoun's  chances  of  obtaining  the  Presidency, 
regardless  of  the  effect  it  may  have  had  upon  history. 

One  woman  was  beautiful.  We  have  Daniel  Webster's  word  for  that, 
and  Webster  was  no  inexpert  connoisseur.  The  impressions  of  the  young 
newspaperman,  Ben.  Perley  Poore,  were  more  concrete.  The  white  skin, 
'delicately  tinged  with  red/  the  dark  curls  and  curving,  full-lipped  mouth 
of  the  Irish  barmaid  who  became  the  American  Pompadour,  haunted 
Poore's  imagination  for  fifty  years.6 

And  the  other  had  been  beautiful.  This  explains  much.  Floride  Cal- 
houn was  no  longer  the  sprightly  girl  who  had  dazzled  Washington  society 
a  decade  before.  Women  aged  early  in  those  days.  Floride  was  only  thirty- 
five,  but,  by  the  standards  of  the  times,  already  a  middle-aged  woman. 
She  had  borne  eight  children,  and  now  in  the  winter  of  1829  was  'in  a 
delicate  condition'  once  more.  Mrs.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  several  years 
later,  could  write  of  Floride's  husband  that  chis  face  charmed  me,' 7  but 
the  toasts  to  Floride's  beauty  had  given  way  to  others.  There  was  Mrs. 
Porter,  for  instance.  And  there  was  Peggy  O'Neil. 

Peggy  had  been  well  if  not  favorably  known  in  the  national  capital  since 
her  twelfth  year,  when  her  rollicking  impudence  in  a  dancing  contest  had 
won  her  a  smile  and  a  prize  from  lively  Dolly  Madison.  In  earlier  years, 
Andrew  Jackson  had  trotted  her  upon  his  knee,  and  Washington  society 
ladies,  between  conjectures  as  to  whether  Mrs.  Jackson  would  smoke  her 
corncob  pipe  in  the  White  House  or  treat  the  visiting  Ambassadors  to 
hers  and  the  General's  backwoods  dance  exhibition  of  Tossum  up  de 
Gumtree,'  pronounced  Peggy  a  'fit  handmaid'  for  the  President's  wife. 
Birds  of  a  feather,  you  know!  8 

News  that  Peggy,  now  the  widow  of  Naval  Purser  Timberlake,  would 
become  the  bride  of  Senator  John  Henry  Eaton  of  Tennessee  set  Wash- 
ington's hair  on  end.  Eaton  was  practically  Andrew  Jackson's  adopted 
son,  and  his  first  wife  had,  in  fact, -been  the  President's  ward.  But  if 
shocked,  Washington  was  hardly  surprised,  for  the  rumors  of  the  couple's 
premarital  intimacies,  climaxed  by  the  rumored  suicide  of  Timberlake,  had 
illumined  feminine  chit-chat  for  over  five  years.9  No  belated  wedding  cere- 
mony between  the  dark,  explosive  Peggy  and  the  lean,  auburn-haired 


194  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

Eaton  could  right  such  a  series  of  wrongs.  Mrs.  Calhoun  was  no  longer 
the  social  queen,  but  she  was  the  Vice-President's  wife,  and  under  her 
lead  the  ladies  of  Washington  preened  for  battle.  'The  ladies  .  .  .  will 
not  go  to  the  wedding/  Mrs.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith  wrote,  'and  if  they 
can  help  it,  will  not  let  their  husbands  go.' 10 

The  husbands  went.  With  Jackson  to  guide  them,  they  were  far  less 
tractable  than  was  expected.  Even  Calhoun  weakened,  and  called  alone 
on  pretty  Peggy,11  and  what  those  two  might  have  said  to  each  other 
would  make  an  interesting  addition  to  history.  But  it  did  no  good,  po- 
litically speaking.  Henry  Clay,  inspired  alike  by  Peggy  and  alcohol,  could 
not  resist  a  variation  on  a  theme  from  Shakespeare.  'Time,'  said  Mr. 
Clay,  'cannot  wither,  nor  custom  stale  her  infinite  virginity.'  **  This 
'pretty  wit'  shook  the  men  of  Washington  into  hilarious  glee,  but  to  An- 
drew Jackson  the  affair  was  no  laughing  matter.  When  Vice-President 
Calhoun  warned  the  enraged  President-elect  that  'public  opinion'  would 
not  allow  Eaton's  appointment  as  Secretary  of  War,  because  Peggy  would 
thus  automatically  be  brought  into  society,  Jackson  instantly  detected 
the  feminine  hands  behind  the  curtain.  'Do  you  suppose/  he  demanded, 
'that  I  have  been  sent  here  by  the  people  to  consult  the  ladies  of  Wash- 
ington as  to  the  proper  persons  to  compose  my  Cabinet?' 1S 

Naturally,  it  was  Peggy  toward  whom  the  barbs  were  aimed.  Of  the 
dignified  and  pleasant  John  Eaton,  there  was  little  criticism.  Indeed,  it 
is  doubtful  that  Peggy's  morals,  so  much  as  Peggy's  origins,  were  the  real 
objects  of  attack.  Mrs.  Secretary  Ingham,  for  instance,  was  'received,' 
but  she  was  a  lady  by  birth  if  not  by  conduct.  Peggy  may  not  have,  been, 
as  Jackson  so  vehemently  asserted,  'chaste  as  a  virgin,' 14:  but  so  far  as 
legal  evidence  went,  his  viewpoint  could  have  been  as  easily  proved  as 
the  other.  Yet  Peggy  was  unquestionably  guilty,  guilty  of  social  ambitions 
beyond  her  'lowly  condition,'  guilty  of  beauty  unbecoming  a  matron  of 
thirty,  guilty  of  wit  and  conversational  charm,  to  which  years  of  associa- 
tion with  Washington  leaders  had  given  intellectual  polish  as  well  as 
picturesque  profanity. 

'Damn  it,  I'm  off,'  exclaimed  Peggy  on  the  news  of  her  elevation  to 
the  rank  of  Cabinet  'lady.'15  Off,  she  surely  was,  on  an  adventure  in 
which  she  shared  honors  with  a  proud  South  Carolina  aristocrat  in 
wrecking  a  Cabinet,  but  in,  she  surely  was  not.  In  Washington  social 
circles  there  was  no  seat  for  Peggy  O'Neil.  Not  even  the  wishes  of  the 
President-elect  could  force  the  ladies  to  visit  one  who  had  'left  her  strait 
and  narrow  path.' ie 

Jackson's  championship  was  the  puzzle.  Outwardly,  the  ladies  laughed 
it  off,  with  mischievous  hints  that  Peggy  had  made  another  conquest.  Had 
the  history  of  Rachel  Jackson's  death  been  known  to  them,  they  would 
have  indulged  in  no  such  suppositions.  During  her  last  days  the  faithful 
Rachel,  who  in  error  had  married  Jackson  before  her  divorce  from  her 


XIH  PETTY  ARTS  195 

first  husband  had  become  final,  was  dragged  through  the  Administration 
press  and  held  up  to  public  scorn  as  a  strumpet  and  adulteress.  She  had 
died,  believing  that  she  was  a  burden  upon  his  glory.  The  vicious  hatred 
of  the  American  press  had  killed  her — so  Jackson  thought.  And  when, 
agonized  beyond  endurance,  he  had  thrown  himself  upon  the  new  grave 
in  the  beating  rain,  it  had  been  Rachel's  friend,  Peggy  O'Neil,  who  had 
comforted  him,  led  him  gently  into  the  house,  and  persuaded  him  to 
eat  and  rest.17  Would  malicious  tongues  wreck  the  life  of  another  woman, 
whom  Jackson  firmly  believed  to  be  as  innocent  as  his  own  maligned 
Rachel?  Not  while  there  was  a  drop  of  red  blood  left  in  his  body.  He 
was  a  man  who  had  loved  once  and  loved  deeply;  he  had  lived  the 
rough  life  of  the  frontier,  and  yet,  to  him,  womanhood  was  sacred. 
Quixotic,  ridiculous,  if  you  will,  Andrew  Jackson,  in  his  championship  of 
Peggy,  gave  the  Southern  'gentlemen'  of  his  day  an  example  of  chivalry. 


Between  the  two  administrations  in  the  winter  of  1828  a  void  of  silence 
descended  upon  Washington.  Like  a  flickering  candle,  the  Adams  Ad- 
ministration made  a  few  spasmodic  attempts  to  lighten  its  own  gloom. 
Henry  Clay,  who  could  not  live  without  the  stimuli  of  success  and  ex- 
citement, donned  his  'mask  of  smiles/  and  an  artificial  animation  which 
carried  him  through.  To  his  friends  he  seemed  to  be  going  into  the  cus- 
tomary 'decline7;  he  was  white  and  thin,  unable  to  sleep  without  drugs, 
and  alternating  between  seclusion  and  a  restlessness  so  intense  that  he 
could  not  even  eat  at  home  unless  surrounded  by  friends.  Actually  he 
was  on  the  verge  of  a  nervous  collapse:  the  dissipation  of  a  favorite  son 
and  the  insanity  of  another,  four  years  of  carping  criticism  from  the  op- 
position press,  and  his  own  fall  from  national  favor  had  been  too  much 
for  even  his  blithe  temperament.  He  rallied  himself  finally,  and  was  so 
spirited,  gracious,  and  gay  that  friends  said  he  'was  determined  we  should 
regret  him.'18  Even  President  Adams  thawed  out  enough  to  assume  a 
cordial  manner  for  his  last  levee,  at  which,  for  the  first  time  in  his  Ad- 
ministration, two  drawing  rooms  were  opened  for  dancing. 

Nevertheless,  Washington  was  ominously  silent.  Most  of  the  Cabinet 
officers'  houses  were  closed.  The  winter  was  very  cold.  After  a  driving 
snowstorm  which  turned  the  languid  Potomac  into  a  sheet  of  ice,  many 
of  the  city's  poverty-stricken,  starving  silently  in  unheated  houses,  froze 
to  death.  One  city  newspaper  took  on  the  support  of  a  poor  family  for 
six  weeks,  although  a  society  woman  protested  that  to  feed  the  poor  was 
a  mere  temporary  measure  and  rendered  them  even  more  unfit  to  help 
themselves  when  outside  help  was  ended.  Congress,  mindful  of  its  re- 
sponsibilities toward  the -public  funds,  could  of  course  vote  no  money  for 


196  .  JOHN  C.  CALHOUN 

relief,  but  in  answer  to  an  appeal  from  the  National  Intelligencer  took 
up  a  collection  from  the  members  to  purchase  fifty  cords  of  wood  for  dis- 
tribution where  necessary.19 

It  took  the  ebullient  Mrs.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith  to  shake  the  city  out 
of  its  lethargy.  She  gave  a  'small  party'  at  which  she  saucily  mingled  the 
old  and  the  new  regime,  with  as  honored  guests  'our  old  friends,'  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Calhoun,  who  alone  had  accomplished  the  tightrope  feat  of  walking 
from  one  administration  into  another,  'she  as  friendly  and  social,  he  as 
charming  and  interesting  as  ever/  While  some  talked  in  groups  and  others 
played  chess,  Mrs.  Smith  talked  with  the  two  she  most  admired,  'Mr. 
Barbour  and  Mr.  Calhoun/  Calhoun  discussed  the  'late  election  and  the 
characters  of  ...  leaders  on  both  sides.  I  really  ought  to  commit  such 
observations  as  his  to  paper,  but  I  cannot  find  the  time/ 20  Mrs.  Smith 
wrote. 

The  entrance  of  Mrs.  Porter,  wife  of  the  Secretary  of  War,  with  a  smile 
for  one  and  a  nod  for  another,  climaxed  the  evening.  'No  one  can  see  Mrs. 
Porter  but  love  her,'  Mrs.  Smith  wrote  of  this  sparkling  beauty,  who  in  the 
bleakness  of  the  Adams  regime  had  scored  the  greatest  social  success  since 
Dolly  Madison.21  While  Mrs.  Adams  quibbled  upon  the  question  of  whether 
to  visit  or  to  wait  for  visits,  Mrs.  Porter  every  other  week  issued  hundreds 
of  invitations  to  her  'Mondays/  with  four  rooms  and  a  band  for  dancing. 
Her  open  house  on  'little  Mondays'  was  equally  celebrated;  and  yet,  with 
all  her  gaiety  and  a  list  of  five  hundred  social  calls  to  make,  she  would 
leave  a  party  to  visit  the  Washington  slums,  and  sit  for  hours  in  an  un- 
heated  room  by  the  bedside  of  a  dying  woman. 

As  she  entered,  she  gaily  chaffed  the  Jackson  men,  and  'carried  on  a 
sprightly  conversation  with  Calhoun,'  to  which,  Mrs.  Smith  declared,  'all 
around  listened  with  delight.' 

'I  have  not  long  to  stay,  so  I  am  determined  to  ...  enjoy  all  I  can,' 
she  said.  'But  no  matter' — nodding  her  head — 'it  we  must  go  now,  we  will 
be  back  in  4  years,  so  take  it  yourselves.' 

She  wandered  away,  and  Calhoun  turned  to  his  hostess.  'What  a  pity,' 
he  said,  'that  all  the  ladies  can  not  carry  it  off  as  charmingly  as  Mrs. 
Porter,  but  some,  I  hear,  take  it  much  to  heart.' 

The  gentlemen  more  than  the  ladies,'  Mrs.  Smith  retorted.  'All  the 
Secretaries  are  sick  .  ,  .  with  the  exception  of  General  Porter.' 

Calhoun  deplored  the  mingling  of  'personal  with  political  feelings.  .  .  . 
There  is  nothing  from  which  I  have  really  suffered  in  the  late  conflict,'  he 
said,  'but  the  division  it  has  created  between  me  and  personal  friends;  as 
for  the  abuse  of  political  opponents,  that  is  nothing,  wounds  which  leave 
no  scar.' tt 


XIH  PETTY  ARTS  197 


In  February,  Jackson,  evading  a  celebration,  slipped  quietly  into  the  city. 
His  army  followed  him.  Day  after  day  the  trampled  streets  became  filled 
with  strange  faces,  bearded,  gnarled,  weather-beaten.  Moccasins  padded 
in  the  mud;  rifles  that  had  seen  service  with  Old  Hickory  in  1812  flashed 
in  the  sun.  Daniel  Webster  studied  the  faces  with  fastidious  distaste.  A 
'great  multitude/  he  commented,  'too  many  to  be  fed  without  a  miracle, 
are  already  in  the  city,  hungry  for  office.'  Actually,  he  marveled,  they 
seem  to  think  that  Jackson  'has  come  to  save  the  country  from  some  dread- 
ful danger.5  * 

Later  generations,  familiar  with  the  free-for-all  which  concluded  Jack- 
son's inauguration,  have  not  shared  Francis  Scott  Key's  opinion  that  the 
spectacle  was  'sublime.'  Yet  to  the  women  of  Washington  there  was  some- 
thing 'imposing  and  majestic'  in  the  scene.  Twenty  thousand  people  were 
massed  together  on  the  lawn  of  the  Capitol  or  crowded  into  carts  under  the 
poplar  trees  along  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  awaiting  the  appearance  of  their 
hero.  He  came  slowly  into  view,  stooped  with  grief  as  well  as  age,  his 
steps  hampered  by  the  eager  jostling  of  the  crowd. 

'There!  there!  that  is  he!' 

'Which?' 

'He  with  the  white  head! ' 

'There  is  the  old  man  .  .  .  there  is  the  old  veteran;  there's  Jackson!' * 

He  mounted  the  steps  to  the  portico,  standing  in  silence  behind  a  table 
covered  with  red  velvet,  his  loose  hair  blowing  in  the  wind.  Nearby  stood 
the  Cabinet  officers,  the  grim  and  disapproving  Chief  Justice  Marshall,  and 
Vice-President  Calhoun,  who  with  a  minimum  of  ceremony  had  taken  his 
own  oath  in  the  Senate  Chamber.  Slowly  Jackson  bowed  to  the  people,  as 
brilliant  sun  rays  pierced  the  mist.  Cannon  boomed.  An  answering  roar  rose 
from  the  crowd,  then  silence  as  the  General  read  his  address.  At  the  close 
he  touched  his  lips  to  the  Bible  and  bowed  once  more,  'to  the  people  in  all 
their  majesty.' M 

There  was  little  majesty  and  less  restraint  at  the  other  end  of  Penn- 
sylvania Avenue,  where  a  mob,  a  rabble  of  men,  women,  and  children, 
blacks  and  whites,  were  'scrambling,  fighting,  romping'  across  the  White 
House  lawns,  leaping  from  the  windows,  storming  the  doors  where  waiters 
were  ladling  out  punch.  There  was  no  sublimity  in  the  spectacle  of  fainting 
women,  of  bloody  noses,  and  buckets  and  buckets  of  broken  china  and 
glass.  And  there  was  a  minimum  of  majesty  inside,  where  tobacco-chewing 
frontiersmen,  red  clay  thick  on  their  boots,  mounted  the  damask-covered 
chairs  in  the  East  Room  to  get  a  better  look  at  their  hero,  and  where  'a 
stout  black  wench'  was  sitting  happily  on  the  floor,  eating  'jelly  with  a 


198  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

gold  spoon.'  *  Jackson  himself  was  only  saved  from  suffocation  in  that 
swirling  mob  by  friends  who  formed  a  human  barricade  around  him.  He 
escaped  through  a  window  to  Gadsby's  Tavern,  although  he  had  sufficient 
energy  to  climax  his  day  with  a  dinner  party  at  which  he,  Calhoun,  and 
other  favored  political  supporters  dined  on  sirloin  steak  from  a  prize  ox 
roasted  for  the  occasion.27  Mrs.  Smith  summed  up  the  day:  'Ladies  and 
gentlemen,  only,  had  been  expected.  .  .  .  But  it  was  the  People's  day  and 
the  People's  President,  and  the  People  would  rule.'  28 

The  inaugural  ball  was  another  matter.  There  gentlemen  did  appear, 
and  ladies,  too,  in  wide-skirted,  tight-waisted  gowns  of  brocade,  piped  with 
coral  satin,  of  blue  silk  or  India  muslin,  trimmed  with  white  roses  and 
delicate  hand-embroidery.  Vice-President  Calhoun  was  there,  gay  and 
smiling;  the  Cabinet  officers  and  their  ladies  were  there,  and  Mrs.  Vice- 
President  Calhoun,  who  did  not  seem  to  notice  that  Mrs.  John  Henry 
Eaton,  wife  of  the  Secretary  of  War,  was  also  there. 

And  right  then  the  trouble  began. 


Peggy  was  undaunted.  She  soon  called  on  the  Vice-President's  lady,  and 
was  received  with  'civility/  although  it  cannot  be  imagined  that  the  visit 
brought  any  particular  pleasure  to  either  of  them.  Instantly  the  question 
arose:  Was  Mrs.  Calhoun  to  return  the  visit? 

Here  the  Vice-President  himself  enters  the  story.  He  was  not  under  the 
control  of  his  wife.  No  one  ever  controlled  John  C.  Calhoun.  But  neither 
did  anyone,  least  of  all  her  husband,  control  Floride  Bonneau  Calhoun. 
Already  he  must  have  felt  the  razor  edge  of  her  temper,  for  a  tacit  under- 
standing that  his  office  was  to  be  a  sanctuary  seems  to  have  been  established 
between  them*  Hence,  he  was  startled  when  Floride  flounced  into  the 
room  the  next  morning,  interrupting  his  writing  to  announce:  'Mr.  Cal- 
houn, I  have  determined  not  to  return  Mrs.  Eaton's  visit.' 

Calhoun  was  stunned.  He  had  discussed  the  subject  with  his  wife,  but 
they  had  reached  no  decision,  and  the  very  suddenness  of  her  ultimatum 
shook  him.  Years  afterward,  he  recalled  that  the  panorama  of  his  future 
life — the  tariff  fight,  nullification,  the  break  with  Jackson — all  flashed 
before  his  eyes  like  the  vision  of  a  dying  man.  'I  foresaw  the  difficulties  in 
which  it  would  probably  involve  me.'  He  could  not  speak.  Only  his  wife's 
words,  sharply  repeated,  tore  him  from  his  reverie.  'I  have  determined,  Mr. 
Calhoun,  not  to  return  Mrs.  Eaton's  visit.' 

Calhoun  roused  himself.  He  listened  as  Floride  offered  the  hardly  plausi- 
ble excuse  that  she  was  a  'stranger'  in  the  town,  knowing  nothing  'of  ... 
the  truth,  or  falsehood  of  the  imputation'  on  Mrs.  Eaton's  character.  But  if 
Mrs.  Eaton  were  innocent,  she  should  'open  her  intercourse  with  the  ladies 


XIII  PETTY  ARTS  199 

who  resided  in  the  place  .  .  .  and  who  had  the  best  means  of  forming  a 
correct  opinion  of  her  conduct.' M 

It  was  Calhoun's  Vain  and  silly  wife,'  who,  for  her  own  social  gratifica- 
tion, ruthlessly  wrecked  her  husband's  career  'at  its  zenith/  asserted 
Eckenrode  more  than  a  century  later;  so  and  although  he  may  have  ex- 
aggerated, Calhoun  himself  came  to  believe  that  'The  road  to  favor  .  .  . 
lay  directly  before  me.  ...  The  intimate  relation  between  General  Jack- 
son and  Major  Eaton  was  well  known,  as  well  as  the  interest  that  the 
former  took  in  Mrs.  Eaton's  case.' 

Yet  he  adds  that  he  would  have  felt  himself  'degraded'  had  he  sought 
'power  in  that  direction.' S1  For  by  the  South  Carolina  moral  code,  Floride 
was  right.  Floride  was  the  mother  of  young  daughters;  what  example 
would  it  be  to  them  if  official  rank  should  prove  superior  to  'female 
virtue';  should  'open  the  door  already  dosed'?  In  South  Carolina,  where 
death  alone  could  sever  marriage  vows,  family  rules  stipulated  that  on 
social  questions  the  woman's  decision  was  law.  So  with  that  fatalistic, 
almost  Greek  resignation  which  characterized  Calhoun  two  or  three  times 
during  his  life,  in  contrast  to  the  defiant,  fighting  side  of  his  nature,  he 
bowed  to  the  feminine  verdict.  'This  is  a  question  upon  which  women 
should  feel,  not  think,'  he  said.  'Their  instincts  are  their  safest  guides.' 32 

Calhoun  knew  when  Floride  had  made  up  her  mind.  Hence,  the  story 
handed  down  by  one  branch  of  the  Calhoun  family  may  be  only  legend, 
but  it  is  completely  characteristic  of  all  parties  concerned.  The  story  is 
that  a  private  interview  took  place  between  Jackson  and  the  Vice-Presi- 
dent. 

'You  must  see  ...  that  your  wife  returns  Mrs.  Eaton's  visit,'  Jackson 
is  said  to  have  demanded. 

'I  can't  do  that,  Mr.  President,'  Calhoun  answered. 

'You  must,'  Jackson  said  firmly. 

Calhoun's  own  stubbornness  asserted  itself.  'I  can't,  and  I  won't,'  he 
retorted. 

'If  you  won't,  then  I  will,'  said  the  undaunted  General. 

Calhoun  suddenly  became  alarmed.  He  knew  his  wife. 

'Well,  Sir,  I'd  advise  you  not  to  try,'  he  said. 

He  could  not  have  chosen  better  words  to  arouse  the  General's  defiance. 
President  Jackson  is  said  to  have  visited  the  Calhoun  dwelling.  There  he 
laid  down  the  law.  We  can  see  Floride  in  the  miniature  painted  of  her  about 
this  time:  her  heart-shaped  face  framed  by  two  loops  of  smooth,  dark  hair, 
and  a  white  cap  tied  under  the  chin;  dark  eyes  half -hidden  under  droop- 
ing, imperious  lids;  the  chiseled  nose  and  prim  little  mouth,  whose  cupid's 
bow  and  curves  did  not  conceal  its  firm  determination.  She  listened  in 
silence,  her  small  head  high.  Would  this  backwoodsman  dictate  the  social 
law  to  her,  to  a  Bonneau  of  Charleston?  Not  likely!  His  tongue-scourgings 
could  quell  armed  mutinies;  they  made  not  the  least  impression  on  one 


200  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

obstinate  little  woman.  She  heard  him  through.  She  called  for  the  butler. 
'Show  this  gentleman  to  the  door/  she  said.38 

Floride  did  not  stay  in  Washington  to  witness  the  political  consequences 
of  her  actions.  By  summer  she  had  retreated  to  South  Carolina,  prepared 
to  remain  there  'at  least  for  4  years/  rather  than  'endure  the  contamination 
of  Mrs.  Eaton's  company.'34  The  damage  was  complete.  Floride  could 
have  avoided  the  whole  affair  had  she  wished,  for  in  her  'interesting  con- 
dition' she  could  not  have  been  blamed,  even  by  General  Jackson,  had  she 
chosen  gracefully  to  withdraw  from  society.  She  did  nothing  of  the  sort. 
Even  had  she  fully  realized  the  outcome  of  her  stand,  it  is  doubtful  that 
she  would  have  changed. 

To  Peggy  O'Neil  it  was  all  politics,  and  in  a  large  measure  she  was 
right.  But  she  was  wrong  in  her  belief  that  Calhoun  was  playing  the  gen- 
eral game;  he  was  merely  the  victim  of  it.  A  serious  man,  he  refused  to 
take  the  Eaton  affair  seriously.  He  was  looking  forward  to  the  next  two 
or  three  years  with  deep  concern.  'To  preserve  our  Union  on  the  fair  basis 
of  equality,  on  which  alone  it  can  stand,  and  to  transmit  the  blessing  of 
liberty  to  the  remotest  posterity  is  the  first  great  object  of  all  my  exer- 
tions. .  .  .  These  are  not  the  times  in  which  petty  arts  can  succeed.  Too 
many  questions  are  pressing  on  us.  I  have  ever  held  them  in  contempt, 
and  never  more  than  now.' 85 


Calhoun  was  not  left  in  peace  to  conjecture  as  to  the  future,  and  they  were 
<petty  arts7  indeed  that  diverted  him  from  his  course.  With  his  wife  gone, 
he  had,  as  Adams  said,  taken  reluctant  leadership  of  the  'moral  party.'  To 
his  friends  he  explained  that  his  position,  both  as  Floride's  husband  and  as 
Vice-President,  obliged  him  to  lead  the  opposition  to  Mrs.  Eaton.  He 
published  a  pamphlet  upholding  his  wife's  defense  of  the  'dignity  and 
purity  of  her  sex,' 86  but  the  chivalry  which  led  him  into  battle  for  his  own 
lady  prevented  him  from  leveling  his  guns  at  the  other.  Perhaps  memories 
of  his  youth  had  left  a  tender  spot  in  his  heart  for  pretty  Irish  barmaids. 
Nevertheless,  his  defense  lacked  his  usual  literary  force.  He  asserted  that 
his  wife  had  never  called  on  Peggy,  but  Peggy  herself  countered  that  Mrs. 
Calhoun  had  visited  her  prior  to  Eaton's  appointment  to  the  Cabinet,  and 
had  left  her  card.  We  have  the  word  of  one  woman  against  another,  and 
can  take  our  choice.87 

Here  mystery  enters  the  scene.  Was  Peggy,  as  Jackson  said,  'the  smart- 
est little  woman  in  America'?  or  was  Perley  Poore  correct  in  describing 
her  as  a  'mere  beautiful,  passionate,  impulsive  puppet/38  whose  strings 
were  pulled  by  Martin  Van  Buren  to  his  own  advantage?  Probably  there 
was  truth  in  both  statements.  Peggy  could  not  force  her  way  into  Washing- 
ton society,  but  neither  could  society  force  her  to  leave  until  'her  triumph, 


PETTY  ARTS  201 

for  so  she  calls  the  dissolution  of  the  Cabinet/  "  was  complete.  Complete 
it  was.  Not  a  single  officer  whose  wife  had  insulted  her  was  permitted  to 
keep  his  seat.  And  the  men  of  the  warring  factions,  guns  in  hand,  slipped 
through  the  Washington  streets,  silently  hunting  down  their  prey.  No 
blood  was  shed,  but  several  nervous  husbands,  departing  hastily  into  the 
obscurity  where  their  wives  had  already  disappeared,  averted  hostilities. 
Even  Calhoun,  true  to  the  best  Carolina  tradition,  is  said  to  have  grimly 
conjectured  as  to  whether  or  not  a  duel  with  Van  Buren  would  relieve  the 
situation.  In  letters,  however,  he  decided  that  Van  Buren  was  'feeble/ 
though  'artful.  ...  I  see  no  cause  to  fear  him.' 40 

But  there  was  cause  to  fear  Van  Buren.  Van  Buren  understood  that  to 
be  or  not  %)  be  Peggy's  friend  was  the  test  upon  which  depended  Presi- 
dential favor.  So  he  opened  his  house  to  Peggy.  She  was  guest  of  honor 
at  his  dinners  and  balls.  At  the  Russian  Ambassador's  he  escorted  her  in 
to  dinner  before  the  Dutch  Minister's  lady,  which  so  enraged  that  in- 
dignant female,  she  would  not  go  in  at  all.  Tor  the  whole  week,  you  heard 
of  scarcely  anything  else,'  41  wrote  Mrs.  Smith.  When  Peggy,  who  took  all 
her  griefs  and  slights  to  the  President,  reported  this  last  insult,  the  Jack- 
sonian  reply  was  characteristic,  'I'd  sooner  have  live  vermin  on  my  back, 
than  the  tongue  of  the  women  of  Washington  on  my  reputation.'  **  Mean- 
while, the  immortal  author  of  'The  Star-Spangled  Banner,'  once  again 
resorted  to  verse: 

'It  would  grieve  me  to  see  our  great  Master  sport 
With  his  dignity  for  a  frail  woman  in  Court.' 

Blithely  Van  Buren  proceeded  with  his  plans.  Into  Peggy's  pretty  little 
ear  he  whispered  that  Jackson  was  'the  greatest  man  who  ever  lived,'  but 
warned  her  not  to  tell  the  President,  as  he  would  not  have  him  know  it  for 
the  world.  And,  of  course,  Peggy  told  the  General  immediately,  exactly  as 
Van  Buren  had  planned.  Jackson's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "That  man  loves 
me,' 43  he  declared. 

Peggy's  power  over  the  President  was  undeniable.  Calhoun  admitted  it, 
although  his  compliment  to  her  abilities  hardly  soothed  Jackson's  feelings. 
'That  base  man  Calhoun  is  secretely  saying  that  Mrs.  Eaton  is  the  presi- 
dent/ Jackson  wrote.  And  at  a  public  reception  in  the  East  Room,  Peggy 
impudently  dared  the  President's  wrath,  and  won  even  more  of  Ms  ad- 
miration. As  Jackson,  in  his  provincial  patriotism,  was  loudly  boasting 
that  he  had  never  set  foot  on  foreign  territory,  Peggy  intervened: 

'What  about  Florida,  General?' 

Hushed,  the  guests  waited  for  the  explosion. 

'Oh,  that's  so,  Florida  was  foreign,'  Jackson  conceded. 

'I  guess  you  forgot  that  when  you  went  there,  General,'  Peggy  said 
cheerfully.  'Never  mind,  General,  it  didn't  stay  foreign  long  after  you  got 
there.'44 


202  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 


It  was  the  sophisticated  and  woman-wise  Daniel  Webster  who  summed  up 
contemporary  opinion:  'The  consequences  of  this  dispute  in  the  social  .  .  . 
world  are  producing  great  political  effects  .  .  .  and  may  very  probably 
determine  who  shall  be  successor  to  the  present  Chief  Magistrate.'  ** 

Subsequent  views  have  been  more  objective.  No  doubt  Van  Buren  per- 
sonally entrenched  himself  more  firmly  with  Jackson  by  his  attentions  to 
Mrs*  Eaton.  But  to  assume  thereby  that  Jackson's  choice  of  a  Presidential 
successor  was  based  on  personal  grounds  would  be  to  dismiss  him  too 
lightly. 

Actually  at  this  period  there  was  a  wider  area  of  political  agreement 
between  Jackson  and  Van  Buren  than  there  was  between  Jackson  and 
Calhoun.  And  temperamentally,  the  President  and  Vice-President  were 
entirely  too  much  alike  for  comfortable  companionship.  The  break  would 
have  come  had  there  never  been  a  Peggy  O'Neil.  For  as  we  shall  see,  in 
Jackson's  eyes  the  enormity  of  Calhoun's  subsequent  sins  was  enough 
completely  to  swamp  his  lack  of  attention  to  a  pretty  barmaid. 

If  Calhoun  had  become  President,  what  then?  He  might  have  postponed 
the  tariff  fight  for  a  few  years.  He  might  have  strengthened  the  cause  of 
the  states.  But  he  could  not  have  fought  the  spirit  of  the  age — consolida- 
tion— industrialism — standardization — much  more  successfully  in  office 
than  outside.  Certainly  with  the  South  in  power,  it  would  have  been  far 
more  difficult  to  arouse  the  Southern  States  to  any  consciousness  of  their 
long-range  dangers. 

So  Peggy  O'Neil  may  not  have  greatly  changed  history,  after  all.  And 
Calhoun,  despite  his  qualms  at  Floride's  verdict,  knew  where  the  primary 
source  of  trouble  lay — in  Martin  Van  Buren. 


XIV 
America  Grows  Up 


General  Jackson  will  be  here  about  the  15th  of  Feb. 

Nobody  knows  what  he  will  do. 

Many  letters  are  sent  to  him; 

he  answers  none  of  them. 

My  opinion  is 

That  when  he  comes  he  will  bring  a  breeze  with  him. 

Which  way  it  will  blow  I  cannot  tell.1 

THUS  WROTE  DANIEL  WEBSTER  on  a  January  morning  in  1829,  two 
months  before  that  fabulous  inauguration  day  when  Old  Hickory  and  'the 
People'  had  taken  over  the  capital. 

'When  he  comes  he  will  bring  a  breeze  with  him.'  The  breeze  that  he 
had  brought  was  the  spirit  of  democracy. 

America  was  growing  up.  The  squalling  infant,  sired  by  Washington, 
spanked  into  lusty  childhood  by  Thomas  Jefferson,  had  grown  into  a  gawky 
and  bumptious  adolescence.  With  the  inauguration  of  Andrew  Jackson, 
America  had  rejected  its  heritage — and  found  its  destiny.  For  Jackson  him- 
self was  the  symbol  of  the  new  America.  He  was  the  first  truly  American 
President,  the  first  Chief  Executive  to  spring,  not  from  the  Founding 
Fathers'  classic  republican  heritage,  but  from  the  roaring  frontier,  from 
the  very  loins  of  America  herself.  Jackson  owed  no  responsibility  to  the 
past.  To  Jackson  one  word  held  meaning — democracy. 


To  the  self-appointed  aristocracy  of  America,  democracy  had  seemed  an 
endurable  idea  when  voiced  by  the  undeniably  aristocratic  Mr.  Jefferson  of 
Monticello.  It  had  seemed  a  tolerable  idea  to  the  parlor-liberals  of  Eng- 
land, as  'theory  in  a  London  drawing  room.'  But  it  was  something  dif- 
ferent when  presented  'in  the  shape  of  a  hard  greasy  paw,  and  ...  in 
accents  that  breathed  less  of  freedom  than  of  onions  and  whiskey.'  Equality 
was  ideal,  and  of  course  'we  should  all  be  equal  in  heaven';  but  there  were 


204  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

limits  when  butchers  and  laborers  in  dirty  shirt-sleeves,  calling  themselves 
gentlemen,  were  introduced  as  such  to  a  haughtily  bred  woman  like  Mrs. 
Frances  Trollope.2 

These  were  the  years  when  the  world  came  to  America.  They  came  in 
couples;  they  came  in  droves:  Alexis  de  Tocqueville,  Captain  Marryat, 
Captain  and  Mrs.  Basil  Hall,  Fanny  Kemble,  Mrs.  Trollope,  the  scientist 
Charles  Lyell,  George  Featherstonhaugh  the  geologist,  and  many  more. 
They  came;  they  saw;  and  they  wrote  books.  Yes,  democracy  was  real;  it 
lived,  breathed,  and  proclaimed  itself  America.  Even  the  hypercritical  Mrs. 
Trollope  admitted  that  'Any  man's  son  may  become  the  equal  of  any 
other  man's  son,'  a  fact  conducive  to  the  'coarse  familiarity  .  .  .  assumed 
by  the  grossest  and  lowest  .  .  .  with  the  highest  and  most  refined.' s  Men 
who  could  not  read  sent  their  children  to  school  to  become  lawyers;  chil- 
dren inherited  a  love  of  independence  and  the  consciousness  that  they 
were  the  sons  of  brave  fathers;  but  in  foreign  eyes  this  could  not  make 
them  scholars  and  gentlemen.  In  foreign  eyes  Americans  were  'deficient  in 
both  taste  and  learning,'  *  yet  few  denied  their  inherent  talent  and1  mental 
power. 


But  what  a  country  it  was,  this  lusty,  roaring  young  America!  New  York 
on  July  Fourth— 'six  miles  of  roast  pig,'  lined  Broadway  in  booths,  cham- 
pagne popping  within  and  firecrackers  without,  the  sky  showered  with 
rockets,  'Italian  suns,  fairy  bowers,  stars  of  Columbia,  and  Temples  of 
liberty,5  all  'America  ablaze  ...  and  aU  America  tipsy.' 5  The  toasts  to 
the  heroes  of  Tippecanoe  and  New  Orleans,  to  Vice-President  Calhoun, 
'an  able  statesman  and  practical  Republican,'  to  the  'gone  coon/  Henry 
Clay;  'Like  the  sun,  his  splendour  hides  his  spots.' 6 

The  gusto,  the  extravagance  of  the  American  taste  and  the  American 
language:  of  'Leghorn  hats  large  enough  to  turn  the  wheel  of  a  windmill'; 
of  'Brewster's  Truly  Fortunate  Lottery  office— Orders  thankfully  and 
promptly  executed';  and  the  small-town  drygoods  store  with  its  'Rich 
Super  Extra  Gold  List  Elegant  Blue  Cloth.'7  The  backwoodsman  who 
wanted  'all  hell  boiled  down  to  a  pint,'  just  to  pour  down  his  enemy's 
throat.  The  river  boatman  who  'rip't  up'  his  Captain  with  a  hunting  knife! 
Shakers  dancing,  their  wrists  raised  to  their  chests,  hands  hanging  down 
like  the  paws  of  a  bear:  'Our  souls  are  saved  and  we  are  free  from  vice 
and  aU  iniquity,'  which  Captain  Marryat  thought  'a  very  comfortable  de- 
lusion at  all  events.'  Waxwork  shows  of  General  Jackson  and  the  Battle 
of  New  Orleans,  or  'celebrated'  criminals  'in  the  very  act  of  committing  the 
murder.' 8 


XIV  AMERICA  GROWS  UP 


205 


An  era  was  ending.  In  the  New  Haven  Herald,  Noah  Webster,  ears  out- 
raged by  the  new  'American  language/  where  'bangup'  had  become  the 
adjective  of  esteem,  and  'fair  dealing  and  no  jockeying*  the  summary  of 
the  moral  code,  issued  an  appeal:  'I  have  devoted  a  large  part  of  my  life 
to  a  study  of  your  language.  ...  If  ...  men  choose  to  write  defence  and 
offence  with  c — or  musick  with  k  .  .  .  they  have  a  perfect  right  to  do  so; 
but  such  irregularity  .  .  .  will  never  deform  .  .  .  my  writings.' 9 

In  the  public  press  Americans  could  gloat  over  reports  that  the  tall, 
war-worn  Wellington  had  so  far  'lost  his  sense  of  shame,  as  to  forsake  his 
wife  to  associate  with  an  opera  singer.'10  Democratic  America  joyfully 
sneered  at  British  heroes;  debunking  was  a  national  pastime,  although 
enough  hero-worship  still  survived  for  the  entire  citizenry  of  a  Rhode 
Island  village  to  fight  to  buy  snuff  from  a  jar  previously  patronized  by 
John  Quincy  Adams,  and  to  gaze  in  reverence  upon  the  Vessel  that  had 
contained  powder  fit  to  tickle  the  nose'  of  an  ex-President  of  the  United 
States. 


Was  there  ever  a  country  like  it  since  the  world  began?  Americans  thought 
not.  Our  'glorious'  future,  our  'divine  political  institutions'  were  on  every 
lip;  and  it  was  'our  weather,  our  democracy  ...  our  canvasback  ducks/ 
etc.,  until  the  British  Mrs.  Basil  Hall  concluded  that  it  was  only  by  the 
courtesy  of  Americans  that  foreigners  were  permitted  to  share  these  en- 
joyments.11 But,  once  more,  what  a  country  it  was — its  contrasts — frontier 
democracy  and  Negro  slavery,  Davy  Crockett  and  John  Randolph,  North 
and  South — and  here,  the  greatest  variances  of  all! 

'A  continent  of  almost  distinct  nations,'  was  Mrs.  Trollope's  observation. 
'I  never  failed  to  mark  the  difference  on  entering  a  slave  state.' "  The 
South  was  different,  already  the  nation's  'other  province/  itself  as  much  a 
patchwork  of  contrasts  as  the  country  at  large.  Estimates  of  Southerners 
ranged  all  the  way  from  the  paeans  of  those  entertained  in  the  manor- 
houses  to  Mrs.  Basil  Hall's  peevish  dismissal  of  the  'secondary  classes'  as 
'more  disagreeable,  gruff,  and  boorish  than  anything  I  ever  saw.' *  South 
as  well  as  North,  there  was  the  same  fierce  personal  individualism,  in- 
tensified by  isolation  on  a  half -won  frontier.  In  the  South,  even  more  than 
in  the  North,  the  basic  equality  of  all  white  men  was  still  real.  'The  lower 
South  was  a  social  unit  except  for  the  poor  slave' ;  x*  and  class  brotherhood, 
bought  at  the  terrible  price  of  black  slavery,  was  strong.  Poor  Southerners 
showed  little  of  the  grudging  ill-will  displayed  by  the  man  'of  no  dollars' 
in  the  North,  whose  services  as  laborer  or  servant,  for  all  his  theoretical 
equality,  were  'in  point  of  fact'  commanded  by  the  man  of  wealth  and 


206  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

power.15  In  the  South  men  of  limited  ability,  who  in  England  would  have 
been  swept  into  factory  or  mine,  still  commanded  their  own  persons.  If 
cotton  had  confiscated  the  best  Southern  lands,  access  to  unclaimed  pine 
barrens  and  foothill  farms  furnished  abundant  subsistence  for  those  who 
would  work  half-heartedly  for  a  few  months  in  the  year.  Southerners  could 
fail  and  still  remain  free.  And  for  those  whose  enemy  was  luck,  not  in- 
dolence, the  West  lay  beckoning  always,  rich  with  its  promises  of  cotton 
lands  and  great  plantations  to  come. 

Diverse  goals  separated  North  and  South:  the  North  rushing  toward  its 
new  industrial  democracy;  the  South  lagging  contentedly  behind.  Not  the 
development  of  new  enterprises,  but  the  stabilization  and  extension  of 
the  existing  plantation  economy  was  the  Southern  ideal.  Politics  fitted  the 
facts.  Observers  of  Jackson's  democracy,  whether  foreigners  or  Southern- 
ers, agreed  that,  although  'the  framers  of  the  Constitution  .  .  .  intended 
to  establish  a  Republic,  not  a  Democracy  ...  the  impulse  which  General 
Jackson  has  given  to  the  democracy  of  America  will  .  .  .  always  be  felt, 
and  impel  the  government  in  a  more  or  less  popular  direction/  The  re- 
strictions of  republicanism,  the  checks  on  the  popular  will,  and  the  powers 
of  the  central  government  were  breaking  down  in  the  onrush  of  democracy. 
Suspect  were  men  more  gifted  than  their  neighbors.  In  a  democracy  one 
man  was  as  good  as  another;  the  man  who  represented,  not  the  ideal  but 
the  common  strivings,  would  reach  power  under  popular  rule.  Once  in 
office,  he  would  not  be  free  to  vote  according  to  his  own  concept  of  the 
general  good.  He  was  bound  by  pledges  to  the  pressure  groups  which  had 
elected  him,  and  was  under  the  threat  of  future  defeat  if  he  acted  in- 
dependently of  his  makers,  the  people.1* 

But  not  in  the  South.  There  the  Republican  ideal  still  lingered.  In  Con- 
gress, where  the  growing  pains  of  young  America  throbbed  most  sensi- 
tively, men  strove  to  interpret  the  Republican  Constitution  to  fit  the 
demands  of  the  new  economy;  while  the  'gentlemen  of  the  South'  sought 
only  to  confine  the  new  economy  to  the  limits  of  the  Constitution.  In  the 
North  men  of  breeding  and  education  were  withdrawing  in  disgust  from 
popular  politics,  as  'fit  only  for  blackguards/  or  the  kind  of  citizen  who 
read  the  papers  daily  at  the  liquor  store  to  see  'that  the  men  we  have  been 
pleased  to  send  up  to  Congress  speak  handsome  and  straight  as  we  choose 
they  should.' 17 

Yet  in  the  South,  as  we  have  seen,  Jefferson's  'natural  aristocracy'  still 
ruled,  even  if  other  of  his  ideals  had  been  less  scrupulously  maintained.* 
In  the  South  men  trained  to  rule  were  still  free  to  rule;  and  what  this 

*See  Clement  Eaton's  Freedom  of  Thought  in  the  Old  South  (Duke  University 
Press,  Durham,  1940)  for  account  of  how  Jefferson's  bill-of-rights  freedoms  began  to 
disappear  in  the  ante-bellum  South,  along  with  his  natural-rights  concept  that  all 
men  were  equal 


XIV  AMERICA  GROWS  UP  207 

diversion  from  the  national  pattern  might  mean  to  the  future  none  dared 
tell;  'the  democratic  institutions  of  the  country  impelling  the  people  one 
way,  while  the  aristocratic  aspirings  of  the  upper  classes'  gave  them  'an 
impulse  in  the  opposite  direction.' 1S 


Symbolic  of  the  conversion  of  America  from  a  republic  into  a  democracy 
was  the  struggle  for  power  of  its  leaders — the  progressives  against  the 
traditionalists.  Behind  the  scenes  in  Washington  the  stage  was  setting  for 
a  mighty  drama,  a  contest  of  giants  that  would  take  shape  as  a  battle  for 
the  presidential  succession,  and  would  even  determine  the  future  course  of 
the  Union.  And  as  the  nation  chuckled  over  the  'petty  arts'  of  the  Peggy 
O'Neil  warfare,  back-stage,  actors  on  both  sides  mouthed  their  lines,  and 
the  long-suppressed  hints  as  to.Calhoun's  early  disapproval  of  Jackson's 
seizure  of  the  Florida  territory  were  now  dinned  into  the  ears  of  the  re- 
ceptive General. 

'I  have  always  been  prepared  to  discuss  it  on  friendly  terms  with  you/ 
Calhoun  asserted  at  the  height  of  the  quarrel  in  1831,  and  his  letters  during 
the  days  of  the  campaign  four  years  earlier  prove  his  words.  To  both 
Monroe  and  Major  Henry  Lee,  who  was  seeking  the  truth  of  the  'Florida 
incident'  for  a  campaign  biography  of  Jackson,  Calhoun  had  written  that 
he  would  'cheerfully'  give  his  views  in  regard  to  the  'true  construction'  of 
Jackson's  Florida  orders,  but  only  to  Jackson  himself.  'With  you,'  he  wrote 
his  running  mate,  'I  cannot  have  the  slightest  objection  to  correspondence 
on  this  subject.' 19  But  Jackson  had  indicated  no  desire  for  such  corre- 
spondence. He  merely  asked  Calhoun  if  the  question  of  his  arrest  had  been 
considered  in  the  Cabinet,  to  which  Calhoun  replied,  'No/  an  answer  true, 
as  far  as  it  went.20 

The  truth  went  farther,  as  we  know,  and  Calhoun  had  nothing  to  gain 
and  everything  to  lose  by  revealing  it.  To  his  credit  it  can  be  said  that  he 
took  the  risk  and,  rebuffed,  considered  the  incident  closed.  But  Crawford 
thought  differently.  Crawford  had  nothing  to  lose  now.  A  broken  man, 
bitter,  he  knew  that  his  own  Presidential  chances  were  gone.  But  there 
was  Martin  Van  Buren  to  consider.  'Marty'  had  helped  Crawford  back  in 
1824.  Had  it  not  been  for  Calhoun's  maneuverings  and  his  own  fateful 
illness,  he  might  well  have  been  in  the  White  House  today.  If  so,  it  would 
have  been  wholly  logical  to  pick  Van  Buren  as  his  successor.  Jackson  be- 
lieved Calhoun  to  be  his  friend.  What  would  he  say  if  he  knew  the  truth  of 
those  Cabinet  sessions  of  1819 — the  truth  about  his  'honest'  and  'noble' 
friend  Calhoun?  Revenge  was  sweet,  and  revenge  in  the  name  of  gratitude 
even  sweeter.  So  in  the  summer  of  1829  Mr.  Van  Buren  visited  Mr.  Craw- 


208  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

ford  on  his  Georgia  estate,  and  their  hours  of  conversation  were  long  and 
confidential.21  There  events  were  set  in  motion  which  were  promptly  made 
known  to  Jackson's  old  friend,  William  B.  Lewis,  who  arrived  at  the 
White  House  for  a  visit  in  November. 

Smoking  comfortably  after  a  strenuous  day,  the  President  was  brought 
out  of  a  reverie  by  a  carefully  casual  remark.  Lewis  was  saying  that  the 
entire  Monroe  Cabinet  had  opposed  Jackson's  course  in  the  Florida  affair. 

Jackson  shook  his  head.  There  was  Mr.  Calhoun.  But  Lewis  was  firm. 
He  had  seen  a  letter  'in  which  Mr,  Crawford  is  represented  as  saying  that 
it  was  not  he,  but  Mr.  Calhoun,  who  was  in  favor  of  your  being  arrested.' 

'You  saw  such  a  letter  as  that?' 

Lewis  nodded.  It  was  now  in  New  York,  he  added. 

'I  want  to  see  it,  and  you  must  go  to  New  York  tomorrow.' 22 

Actually  it  was  a  good  six  months  before  Jackson  saw  the  letter.  But 
the  damage  was  done.  Meanwhile,  other  events  were  taking  place  which 
contributed  to  the  break.  With  the  same  energy  with  which  they  had  un- 
dermined the  Adams  Administration,  Calhoun's  supporters,  afire  with 
fanatic  loyalty,  went  to  work.  Typical  of  their  enthusiasm,  as  well  as  of 
their  methods,  were  the  activities  of  Duff  Green. 

Duff  Green  was  an  extraordinary  character.  A  vehement  States'  Rights 
Democrat,  he  consistently  opposed  secession;  a  lover  of  the  agricultural 
South,  he  was  himself  the  prototype  of  the  twentieth-century  business  ty- 
coon. His  interests  embraced  railroads,  stagecoach  lines,  land  speculation, 
mining,  editing,  writing,  and  iron  manufacturing;  and  in  Calhoun's  own 
latter-day  liberalism — his  recognition  of  the  interdependence  of  South  and 
West,  his  calls  for  railroads  and  limited  but  essential  Southern  industrial 
development — we  can  hear  echoes  of  the  booming  voice  of  Duff  Green. 

While  this  dynamo  was  devoting  his  true  energies  to  advancing  Cal- 
houn's  cause,  he  was  not  above  accepting  the  confidence  of  Jackson  during 
the  first  years  of  his  Administration.  From  an  actual  'Kitchen  Cabinet' 
member,  he  became  openly  and  avowedly  the  leader  of  the  opposition. 

Under  Jackson's  very  roof  in  the  winter  of  1829,  Green  had  the  impu- 
dence to  tell  a  Washington  newspaper  publisher  of  his  plans  for  the 
gradual  triumph  of  Mr.  Calhoun.  Calhoun  papers  were  to  be  set  up  in  all 
strategic  sections  of  the  country,  explained  Green,  whose  own  Washington 
Telegraph  had  long  posed  as  the  ' official'  Jackson  organ;  and  the  instant 
the  formal  'break'  came  were  to  join  in  denunciation  of  the  President.2* 
The  publisher  listened  with  interest,  and  immediately  reported  matters  to 
Jackson,  who  was  unsurprised.  He  was  'prepared  for  it.'  That  his  course 
was  already  resolved  upon  is  indicated  by  a  private  letter  on  the  thirty- 
first  of  December,  1829:  f  .  .  .  of  Mr.  Van  Buren  ...  I  have  found  him 
everything  that  I  could  desire  him  to  be  ...  one  of  the  most  pleasant 
men  to  do  business  with  I  ever  saw.  He  ...  is  well  qualified  to  fill  the 
highest  office  in  the  gift  of  the  people.  ...  I  wish  I  could  say  as  much 


XIV  AMERICA  GROWS   UP  209 

for  Mr.  Calhoun.  You  know  the  confidence  I  once  had  in  that  gentleman. 
However,  of  him  I  desire  not  now  to  speak.'  *  24 


Meanwhile,  for  the  public  at  large  the  curtain  had  risen  on  the  great  battle 
between  the  agrarian  past  and  the  industrial  future.  And  the  protagonists 
were  not  Jackson  and  Calhoun,  but  Daniel  Webster  and  Robert  Young 
Hayne. 

Ostensibly  listening  to  a  debate  on  the  public  lands,  which  had  consumed 
weeks  through  the  winter  of  1829-30,  it  was  only  when  Hayne  dropped 
the  first  seeds  of  the  nullification  doctrine  that  Webster,  lounging  sleepily 
against  a  pillar,  had  stirred  with  interest.  Afterward  events  moved  swiftly. 
Webster  saw  the  battle  in  its  entirety — above  personalities;  the  meaning 
of  the  nullification  doctrine  he  perceived  from  the  first.  For  Jackson  this 
perception  was  the  luckiest  of  accidents;  for  Calhoun  a  disaster. 

A  few  initial  skirmishes  preceded  the  full-scale  debate;  but  news  that 
each  combatant  would  speak— and  speak  fully — aroused  Washington's 
interest  in  a  dramatic  spectacle  only  less  exciting  than  an  appearance  of 
'mad7  Junius  Booth  or  'Mr.  Kean.' 

The  city  was  packed.  The  Indian  Queen,  Gadsby's,  every  nameless  and 
forgotten  boarding  house  in  Washington  was  crammed  to  capacity,  argu- 
mentative, bickering  partisans  jostling  each  other  on  the  staircases,  heat- 
edly disputing  the  relative  merits  of  Jackson  and  Calhoun,  of  Webster 
and  Hayne. 

By  eight  o'clock  of  the  morning  of  January  21,  1830,  every  seat  in  the 
Senate  Chamber  was  filled.  All  eyes  were  on  Hayne,  and  how  handsome 
he  looked!  Boyish  and  slender  in  the  coarse  homespun  suit  which  he  had 
substituted  for  the  hated  broadcloth  of  Northern  manufacture,  he  was  a 
blithe,  carefree  figure  to  all  appearances,  although  there  was  tension  under 
the  smile  which  hovered  so  lightly  across  his  full  lips,  and  intensity  in  the 
flash  of  his  gray  eyes.  All  knew,  however,  that  the  taut  figure  in  the  Vice- 
President's  chair,  listening  with  an  eagerness  which  he  had  not  shown  in 
years,  was  the  real  spokesman  of  the  day.  And  as  Hayne's  rhetoric  flowed 
out,  plausible,  persuasive,  not  concealing  the  already  familiar  arguments 
of  nullification,  observers  had  only  to  look  at  the  'white,  triumphant  face' 
of  the  Vice-President  to  see  revealed  the  secret  that  was  a  secret  no  longer. 

*  Newly  discovered  material  gives  proof  of  Calhoun's  own  personal  loyalty  to 
Jackson,  as  late  as  the  summer  of  1830.  In  August,  he  wrote  Virgil  Maxcy,  an  in- 
timate friend,  that  he  was  'much  gratified  to  find  that  the  President  has  not  lost 
ground  in  Maryland.'  Not  until  November  did  he  realize  the  isolation  of  his  posi- 
tion and  write:  'I  see  a  great  crisis.  I  pray  God  that  our  beloved  country  may  pass 
it  in  safety.'  See  Calhoun's  letters  to  Virgil  Maxcy  of  August  6,  1830,  and  Novem- 
ber 3,  1830,  in  Galloway-Maxcy-Marcoe  papers,  Congressional  Library. 


210  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

His  deep-set  eyes  'shone  approvingly,'  and  now  and  again  a  smile  broke 
across  his  tight  lips.  Much  of  the  time  he  was  bent  over  his  desk,  scrawling 
hasty,  half-legible  notes  of  advice  to  the  speaker,  which  a  few  moments 
later  would  be  carried  down  the  aisle  most  ostentatiously  by  one  of  the 
page  boys.25  Yet  even  his  vigilance  could  not  save  the  situation,  as  Hayne, 
carried  away  by  his  excitement,  carelessly  misstated  a  crucial  point  of  the 
whole  nullification  doctrine,  laying  himself  open  to  attack  by  the  weakest 
of  his  opponents.  Nor  was  it  the  weakest  who  would  challenge  him.  Daniel 
Webster  was  waiting. 

Few  were  aware  of  the  error.  It  was  the  South's  day  and  the  South's 
victory — or  so  the  Southerners  thought.  They  tumbled  out  of  the  Senate 
Chamber,  flushed,  ecstatic.  That  would  show  'em!  That  would  show  old 
Jackson  and  Webster,  too!  Why,  Hayne  had  demolished  him  before  he  even 
started.  Gaily  the  Southerners  proceeded  to  the  taverns  and  toasted  the 
end  of  Daniel  Webster  and  his  tariff,  and  the  glories  of  nullification,  in 
glass  after  steaming  glass  of  punch.  It  was  said  that  night  that  you  could 
tell  a  New  England  man — and  particularly  a  Massachusetts  man — by  his 
downcast  face.26  The  battle  was  won  before  it  was  even  over. 


The  morning  of  January  26  dawned,  cold  and  clear.  The  wind  was 
ing  high/  the  streets  filled  with  clouds  of  red  dust.27  Coach  after  coach 
rolled  up  before  the  Capitol,  and  the  sharp,  frozen  ruts  of  winter  cut  deep 
into  the  satin-clad  feet  of  the  women  as  they  descended  from  their  car- 
riages into  billows  of  ruffles.  Women  were  everywhere — over  one  hundred 
and  fifty  of  them,  one  observer  said — and  by  the  time  they  had  selected 
their  seats,  there  was  scarcely  room  for  a  Senator  to  stand,  much  less  sit 
down.  'No  principle  would  have  had  so  much  attraction.  But  personali- 
ties are  irresistable/  M  Mrs.  Smith  commented.  For  although  on  that  day, 
on  that  floor,  the  question  of  whether  the  United  States  were  a  federal 
union  or  a  national  democracy  would  be  settled,  few  present  troubled  to 
realize  it. 

The  conflict  between  the  personalities,  however,  was  realized  completely. 
And  the  personalities,  people  now  sensed,  were  not  so  much  Webster  and 
Hayne  as  Webster  and  Calhoun.  On  the  floor  stood  Webster,  dark  and 
imperturbable,  and  in  the  chair  sat  Calhoun,  spare,  rough-haired,  tense 
as  a  coiled  spring.  Although  from  the  beginning  Webster  held  and  com- 
pelled attention,  those  who  glanced  at  the  Vice-President  found  in  his 
'changing  countenance'  a  rich  reward.  For  as  the  strength  of  Webster's 
argument  dawned  upon  the  clear-thinking  Carolinian,  his  restlessness  be- 
came Very  evident';  and  as  Webster  denounced  Hayne's  call  for  a  union 
of  the  agrarian  South  and  West  against  Northern  industrial  interests,  and 


XIV  AMERICA  GROWS  UP  211 

proceeded  to  extol  the  kind  of  centralized  Union  that  would  protect  the 
manufacturers,  Calhoun's  'brow  grew  dark/  and  his  face  increasingly 
somber.29 

The  plea  for  internal  improvements  'nettled  him'  beyond  endurance. 
'Too  much  excited'  even  to  remember  his  position,  his  feelings  gave  way, 
and  time  and  again  he  tried  to  break  into  Webster's  speech.  At  last  he 
saw  his  opportunity,  and  tearing  through  all  rules  of  parliamentary  pro- 
cedure, curtly  demanded  if  the  Senator  from  Massachusetts  was  accusing 
'the  person  now  occupying  the  chair'  of  having  changed  his  position. 

Webster  was  astounded.  He  turned  to  the  presiding  officer,  quietly  re- 
marked, 'If  such  change  has  taken  place,  I  regret  it,'  and  continued  where 
he  had  left  off.  The  rebuff  was  complete.  He  followed  up  a  few  moments 
later  with  a  Shakespearian  and  pointed  warning:  'No  son  of  their 's  suc- 
ceeding,' looking  steadily  at  Hayne  and  then  at  Calhoun,  who  'changed 
color'  and  showed  some  agitation.80 

At  the  eulogy  on  Massachusetts  the  excitement  rose  to  its  zenith.  In 
the  gallery  the  Massachusetts  men  wept  openly.  Even  Webster's  own 
emotions,  which  for  all  his  eloquence  were  surprisingly  sluggish,  now 
stirred.  His  dark  skin  warmed;  his  eyes  burned  as  if  'touched  with  fire.' 
And  Calhoun,  whose  mobile  face  throughout  the  debate,  revealed  all  the 
emotions  that  he  strove  to  conceal,  had  given  way  once  again.  State  love 
— state  pride — these  were  things  he  could  understand,  and  his  own  dark 
eyes  were  wet  with  tears. 

'  .  .  .  Liberty  and  Union,  now  and  forever,  one  and  inseparable.'  It  was 
over.  The  room  hung  in  a  silent  spell,  petulantly  broken  by  Calhoun  him- 
self, with  a  sharp  rap  of  his  gavel,  a  curt  'Order!  Order!'  Yes,  it  was  over; 
and  'no  one  who  was  not  present  can  understand  the  excitement  of  the 
scene.' 31 


The  second  act  in  the  struggle  of  the  Jacksonian  democracy  was  booked 
for  the  annual  party  'love-feast,'  the  Jefferson  Day  dinner,  three  months 
later.  And  here  Calhoun  and  Hayne  put  their  own  heads  into  the  trap. 

For  even  Hayne,  oddly  enough,  seemed  to  have  had  no  doubt  that  Jack- 
son would  lend  his  support  to  the  doctrine  of  nullification.  That  nullifica- 
tion was  Calhoun's  threat  to  Jackson  seems  not  to  have  occurred  to  him. 
Of  the  President's  silent  support  of  Webster  he  had  no  conception.  Jack- 
son was  a  Southerner.  The  expanding  tariff-industrial  program  of  the  North 
was  a  threat  to  Southerners.  Thus  reasoned  Hayne. 

Democratic  was  the  choice  of  a  dining  place — Jesse  Brown's  Indian 
Queen  Hotel,  known  to  all  Washington  by  the  luridly  painted  picture  of 
Pocahontas  swinging  in  front,  and  by  the  host  himself  who,  enveloped  in 


212  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

a  huge  white  apron,  personally  carved  and  served  the  principal  dish  of  the 
evening.32  And  democratic  was  the  guest-list,  for  a  card  had  been  left  at 
the  bar,  available  to  any  admirer  of  the  great  Jefferson  who  cared  to  sign, 
pay,  and  get  his  ticket.33 

Light  blazed  from  open  windows,  flashed  through  the  decanters  of 
whiskey,  rum,  and  gin  which  stood  in  rows  along  the  weighted  table. 
Within,  the  air  was  scented  with  the  usual  banquet  fare — boned  turkey, 
partridges,  canvasback  ducks,  pickled  oysters — and  heavy  with  suspense.3* 
At  each  plate  lay  evidence  of  Calhoun's  contribution,  the  interminable  list 
of  toasts,  ranging  all  the  way  from  the  purest  of  Jeffersonian  doctrine  down 
to  'the  doctrine  contended  for  by  General  Hayne.' 35  Their  meaning  was 
clear:  to  commit  the  Democratic  Party  to  the  principles  of  nullification. 
The  Pennsylvania  delegation  entered,  took  one  look,  and  departed  in  a 
body. 

Jackson  at  last,  Van  Buren  at  his  side.  The  General  was  charged  with 
excitement,  'as  animated/  Van  Buren  later  said,  'as  if  he  were  prepared  to 
defend  the  Union  on  a  field  of  battle.' 86  What  did  it  mean?  Only  three  men 
in  Washington  knew  what  was  in  Andrew  Jackson's  mind  that  night.  Only 
Van  Buren  and  Jackson  himself  knew  of  the  three  or  four  tentative  toasts 
that  had  gone  into  the  fire,  and  of  the  slip  of  paper  bearing  one  trenchant 
sentence  that  lay  now  next  to  the  President's  heart. 

Dinner  was  served.  From  the  head  and  foot  of  the  central  table,  Calhoun 
and  Jackson  eyed  each  other,  toyed  with  their  food.  Course  after  course 
was  set  before  them  and  removed,  untouched*  Slowly  the  tension  in  the 
room  increased.  A  plot  had  been  uncovered  to  assassinate  Jackson!  Cal- 
houn was  heading  a  secret  secession  movement  in  South  Carolina;  already, 
so  it  was  said,  medals  had  been  struck  off:  'John  C.  Calhoun:  First  Presi- 
dent of  the  Confederate  States  of  America.5  87  And  as  if  by  magnetic 
power,  all  eyes  were  drawn  to  the  two  central  figures,  so  different  and  yet 
so  alike,  towering  head  and  shoulders  above  most  of  the  other  men  in  the 
room,  their  drawn  faces  and  thin,  compressed  lips.  Each  was  waiting  .  .  . 

Hayne,  dapper,  buoyant,  rapidly  recovering  from  Webster's  body  blows, 
arose.  His  address  was  an  embellished  reiteration  of  the  challenge  to  Web- 
ster, adapted  for  the  dinner  table.  Then  came  the  toasts — twenty-four  of 
them — with  Jackson  growing  more  and  more  stern  and  Calhoun  more 
and  more  taut.  Finally,  Toastmaster  Roane: 

'The  President  of  the  United  States/ 

Jackson  arose,  stood  waiting  for  the  cheers  to  die  away.  He  faced  Cal- 
houn, and  from  each  side  men  drew  back,  leaving  the  way  clear.  Van 
Buren  scrambled  to  the  top  of  a  chair  to  see  better  what  was  going  on.88 

Andrew  Jackson  looked  straight  into  the  eyes  of  John  C.  Calhoun.  'Our 
Union — it  must  be  preserved.' S9 

Not  a  cheer  sounded.  An  order  to  arrest  Calhoun  where  he  sat  would 
not  have  come  with  more  force. 


XIV  AMERICA  GROWS  UP  213 

Jackson  raised  his  glass,  and  as  a  man  the  room  arose.  All  heads  turned 
toward  Calhoun.  His  eyes  had  gone  black;  he  had  the  look  of  a  man  in  a 
trance.  He  brushed  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  then  reached  out,  his  thin 
fingers  groping.  Slowly  they  closed  around  the  stem  of  his  glass.  His  hand 
shook;  the  amber  fluid  trickled  down  the  side.40  'He's  going  to  pour  it  out; 
he's  going  to  pour  it  out/  someone  whispered.  The  glass  steadied;  Calhoun 
drank.  Again  the  burning  gaze  of  the  two  antagonists  met,  crossed.  Jack- 
son left  his  seat  and  walked  over  to  Senator  Benton.  Hayne  hurried  to 
the  President's  side,  and  there  was  a  hasty  whispering.  The  room  was 
emptying  as  if  news  of  an  invasion  had  come  from  outside. 

At  last  quiet  was  restored.  It  was  Calhoun's  turn  now.  White-faced,  his 
eyes  blazing,  he  had  summoned  every  resource  of  his  intrepid  mind.  He 
would  surrender  nothing  of  his  creed.  He  lifted  his  glass.  The  words  of 
his  own  anticlimax  came  slowly,  but  his  voice  was  clear: 

'The  Union.  Next  to  our  liberties,  most  dear.3  41 

He  had  picked  up  the  challenge.  That  night,  in  that  room,  the  lines  of 
Appomattox  had  been  drawn. 


Looking  back  in  later  years,  Calhoun  could  see  the  relentless  succession  of 
events  from  that  inaugural  ball,  when  Floride  had  not  seemed  to  'notice  the 
presence  of  Mrs.  Eaton/  to  the  discomfiting  scrawl  from  President  Jack- 
son on  a  May  morning  in  1830  which  to  all  practical  purposes  ended  Cal- 
houn's  Presidential  hopes  forever.  Even  then  he  scarcely  realized  what  had 
happened,  but  the  drama  had  been  played  to  its  final  curtain.  For  by  now 
the  artfully  designed  and  long-concealed  'letter7  of  Crawford's  was  in 
Jackson's  hai^d. 

It  was  a  'vindictive'  document.  In  it  Crawford,  skillfully  hiding  his 
own  undercover  campaign  against  Jackson,  laid  the  entire  blame  upon 
Calhoun.  Yet  Jackson's  old  friend,  John  Overton,  who  read  the  letter  at 
Jackson's  suggestion,  was  not  deceived  by  it.  It  was,  he  said,  'a  poor  tale 
.  .  .  scarcely  fit  to  deceive  a  sensible  school  boy.' 42  No  doubt  Calhoun 
had  criticized  the  General's  action.  No  doubt  he  had  evaded  confession, 
but,  unlike  Crawford,  he  had  not  attempted  to  throw  the  blame  upon 
another.  To  Overton  the  whole  affair  was  beneath  notice.  His  advice  to 
Jackson  was  to  forget  it;  but  this  was  the  one  course  which  it  was  im- 
possible for  the  President  to  follow. 

Jackson  was  appalled.  Convinced  that  he  could  read  a  man's  soul  in  five 
minutes,  he  was  equally  convinced  that  any  man  who  opposed  his  actions 
was  his  personal,  vindictive  enemy.  Discovery  that  he  had  been  deceived 
was  a  bitter  slap  at  his  self-esteem.  What  made  the  matter  even  more 
painful  to  this  man  of  'fanatical  friendships'  was  his  long-held  impression 


214  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

that  Calhoun  had  been  his  sole  defender  in  Monroe's  Cabinet.48  Never- 
theless, he  withheld  his  fire.  He  wrote  to  Crawford,  received  his  version  of 
the  affair,  and  then  only,  in  a  'brief,  restrained'  note,  demanded  the  truth 
of  Calhoun. 

But  if  Jackson  was  furious,  Calhoun  was  more  so.  He  was  'determined 
to  keep  [his]  temper,3  as  he  wrote  Virgil  Maxcy,  'but  not  to  yield  the 
hundreth  of  an  inch.5  Parton,  by  no  means  a  Calhoun  admirer,  admits 
that  he  could  find  no  evidence  whatsoever  'that  Mr.  Calhoun  was  guilty 
of  duplicity  toward  General  Jackson.3  **  Publicly  or  privately,  Calhoun  had 
never  professed  that  he  approved  all  of  the  General's  proceedings  in 
Florida,  but  he  was  betrayed  by  his  'desire  to  stand  well.3  Disgusted  with 
Crawford3s  revelation  of  Cabinet  secrets,  he  lowered  himself  to  his  rival's 
level.  Instead  of  taking  the  'correct  and  dignified'  ground  of  scorning  to 
reveal  'the  proceedings  of  a  Cabinet  council,'  he  attempted  justification  in 
a  tortuous  maze  of  thirty-two  closely  written  pages.45  Crawford,  mean- 
while, his  memory  blurred  as  to  the  actual  events,  after  having  inoculated 
Jackson3s  mind  with  his  initial  misstatements,  back-tracked,  and  in  a 
second  letter  declared  that  Mr.  Calhoun  did  not  actually  propose  to  'arrest 
General  Jackson.3 

Here,  indeed,  was  a  loophole  through  which  Calhoun  might  have 
squeezed;  but  he  had  not  apparently  sunk  so  far.  Now  that  the  secret 
was  out,  he  scorned  to  hold  back  any  of  it.  If  he  had  used  the  word  in- 
vestigation rather  than  arrest,  his  meaning  was  perfectly  clear.  How  'could 
an  officer  under  our  law  be  punished  without  arrest  and  trial?3 

'The  object  of  a  cabinet  council,3  Calhoun  explained,  is  ,  .  .  to  form 
opinions  .  .  .  after  full  .  .  .  deliberations.3  Proposals  for  Jackson3s  arrest 
had  not  been  considered.  He  admitted  that  his  personal  belief  had  been  that 
Jackson  had  'transcended  his  orders,3  but  that  he  questioned  neither  his 
patriotism  nor  his  motives.  Such  hair-splitting  was,  of  course,  utterly  im- 
possible for  Jackson  to  understand. 

Calhoun  had  called  for  an  investigation.  The  rest  of  the  Cabinet  had 
thought  otherwise.  At  the  end  the  unanimous  decision  was  to  uphold  the 
General.  'I  gave  it  my  assent  and  support.3  M  This  was  more  than  Craw- 
ford did,  who,  despite  his  tacit  submission  to  the  majority  viewpoint,  went 
right  on  secretly  condemning  and  undermining  Jackson  through  his  sup- 
porters in  Congress.  For  Calhoun,  always  a  personal  admirer  of  Old 
Hickory,  once  the  decision  had  been  made,  the  incident  was  closed.  Thus 
ran  his  defense — 'truthful,  restrained/  plausible  enough  to  those  who 
would  labor  through  it,  but  still  only  too  clearly  the  futile  struggle  of  a 
creature  caught  in  a  trap.  To  Jackson  its  meaning  was  clear.  Arrest,  in- 
vestigation, or  reprimand — it  was  all  the  same;  in  his  'hour  of  trial3  Cal- 
houn was  leagued  in  'secret  council3  against  him.  Bitterly  he  gripped  his 
pen.  'I  had  a  right  to  believe  that  you  were  my  sincere  friend,  and  .  .  . 
never  expected  to  ...  say  of  you  .  .  .  Et  tu  Brute.  In  all  your  letters 


XIV  AMERICA  GROWS   UP  215 

as  War  Secretary  you  approved  entirely  my  conduct  in  relation  to  the 
Seminole  campaign.  .  .  .  Your  letter  ...  is  the  first  intimation  to  me 
that  you  ever  entertained  any  other  opinion.  ,  .  .  Understanding  you  now, 
no  further  communication  with  you  on  this  subject  is  necessary.7  *  *7 

Calhoun  demurred.  So  far  as  Jackson  was  concerned,  he  was  a  dead  man, 
but  he  did  not  know  it.  His  'further  communications'  dragged  over  months, 
and  before  the  battle  ended,  the  memories  of  William  Wirt,  the  dying 
James  Monroe,  and  the  totally  indifferent  John  Quincy  Adams  had  been 
thrown  into  the  fray. 

Yet  all  was  not  quite  lost.  Calhoun  put  in  a  tense  six  months  waiting 
for  his  chief's  anger  to  cool,  but  cool  it  finally  did.  Not  that  Jackson  felt 
more  kindly  inclined  toward  the  South  Carolinian;  in  fact,  by  October, 
1830,  he  was  writing  to  his  daughter-in-law,  Emily  Donelson,  that  he  had 
'long  known'  of  Calhoun's  attempts  to  injure  him  through  the  Eaton 
affair.48  Yet  undeniable  steps  were  being  made  toward  at  least  an  official 
reconciliation.  For  the  public  was  confused.  Next  to  that  of  Jackson  him- 
self, Calhoun's  popularity  was  unrivaled,  and  Jackson  might  lose  much  in 
the  South  by  any  open  break  with  his  Vice-President. 


10 

Behind  the  scenes,  mutual  friends  of  the  two  worked  feverishly.  Not  only 
John  Overton  had  been  disgusted  at  Crawford's  and  Lewis's  intrigue  for 
the  hasty  advancement  of  Van  Buren.  And  loyal  as  Jackson  was  to  his 
New  York  friend,  his  basic  sense  of  justice  came  to  the  foreground.  So 
one  autumn  day  in  1830,  as  Ralph  Earl  was  painting  a  portrait  of  Jackson, 
the  President  announced  to  the  omnipresent  Van  Buren  that  the  estrange- 
ment between  himself  and  the  Vice-President  was  ended.  The  unfriendly 
correspondence  was  to  be  destroyed.  'The  whole  affair  was  settled/ 

Unruffled  in  the  face  of  apparent  disaster,  the  Red  Fox  offered  his  con- 
gratulations. Calhoun  was  invited  to  dinner.49 

Had  the  South  Carolinian  been  content  to  let  matters  rest,  history  might 
have  been  different.  But  the  events  of  the  past  two  years  had  gone  too 
deep.  Calhoun  recognized  the  whole  fight  as  a  struggle  for  the  succession 
between  Van  Buren  and  himself,  in  which  'Van  Buren  was  ultimately  suc- 
cessful as  a  result  of  excessive  cleverness  on  his  own  part,  and  some  shady 
practices  on  the  part  of  Lewis  and  of  Eaton.'  ** 

*  Jackson's  letter  to  Monroe,  requesting  an  unofficial  'go  ahead'  signal  through 
'Johnny  Ray,'  was  written  nearly  two  weeks  after  Calhoun's  letter  of  blanket  orders 
to  Jackson  to  'take  the  necessary  measures  ...  to  terminate  the  conflict'  was  dis- 
patched. Hence,  the  Cabinet  debate  turned  on  the  construction  of  the  orders.  (Andrew 
Jackson  to  James  Monroe,  January  6,  1818,  quoted  hi  Parton,  EC,  433 ;  also  Calhoun 
to  Jackson,  December  26,  1817.  American  State  Papers,  Military  Affairs,  I,  690) 


216  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

Van  Buren  had  tried  to  destroy  him;  why,  then,  should  he  not  destroy 
Van  Buren?  Straightway  Calhoun  proceeded  with  a  humanly  spiteful  act 
against  his  rival,  which  in  the  end  injured  no  one  so  much  as  himself. 

The  correspondence  about  his  row  with  the  President  was  his  weapon. 
Why  destroy  it?  Why  not  publish  it  and  let  the  world  judge  as  to  who  had 
really  been  the  plotters  and  who  the  victim?  With  the  aid  of  Duff  Green 
and  Felix  Grundy,  Calhoun  got  the  formidably  bulky  documents  ready  for 
the  press.  Eventually  Grundy  cornered  John  Eaton  in  his  hotel  room  and 
read  him  the  entire  manuscript.  What  changes  would  please  the  President? 
Grundy  asked.  Eaton  suggested  several.  The  men  parted  with  the  under- 
standing that  the  Secretary  of  War  was  to  explain  the  matter  to  Jackson. 
No  disapproval  came  from  the  White  House,  and  on  February  IS,  1831, 
Calhoun,  convinced  that  he  was  acting  with  Jackson's  full  knowledge,  pub- 
lished the  entire  sorry  business  in  the  Telegraph.  The  reaction  of  the  entire 
Administration  press  was  instantaneous.  The  Globe  spoke  for  all  of  them: 
'Mr.  Calhoun  will  be  held  responsible  for  all  the  mischief  which  may  fol- 
low.'51 Roared  Andrew  Jackson:  'They  have  cut  their  own  throats.352 

The  feminine  element  had  had  the  last,  or  rather  the  silent  word.  John 
Henry  Eaton,  the  outraged  husband,  had  deliberately  failed  to  mention 
Calhoun's  plan  to  Jackson.  Peggy  O'Neil's  revenge  was  complete. 

Calhoun  was  left  to  the  meager  consolation  offered  by  such  sympathetic 
females  as  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  who,  with  'the  light  of  Mr.  Calhoun's 
splendid  eye  still  lingering'  in  her  imagination,  announced  that  she  would 
'swear  to  every  word  of  Mr.  Calhoun's  letters.  They  are  written  with  the 
.  .  .  spirit  of  a  true  gentleman,  a  spirit  of  rectitude,  delicacy  and  refine- 
ment, and  I  trust  he  will  break  the  net  his  enemies  have  been  weaving 
around  him.  The  impressions  of  the  unprejudiced  seem  to  me  to  be  all  in 
his  favor.'  * 

Public  opinion  did  little  to  help  Calhoun.  Stripped  of  power,  he  still  had 
his  term  as  Vice-President  to  fill  out;  and  hours  in  which,  'proud  and  silent,' 
he  could  brood  over  the  misfortunes  that  had  struck  him.  He  was  'burning 
with  resentment.'  Of  restoring  his  position  with  Jackson,  he  now  had  no 
hope  at  all.  Yet  during  the  session  of  1831  an  event  occurred  which  con- 
vinced him  that  if  his  own  future  was  blighted,  he  could  do  as  much  for 
the  hopes  of  the  man  upon  whom  he  laid  the  blame — Martin  Van  Buren. 

Van  Buren  was  Minister  to  England,  uttering  suave  generalities  to  the 
men  and  sweet  nothings  to  the  ladies,  impressing  all  with  the  belief  that 
America  could  produce  diplomats  of  courtliness — even  of  culture.  His  had 
been  an  inspired  appointment,  no  doubt,  but  unfortunately  a  recess  ap- 
pointment. Final  approval  must  be  granted  by  the  Senate,  and  Calhoun's 
influence  upon  the  Senate  was  still  strong. 

A  tie  was  arranged.  In  triumph  Calhoun  cast  the  deciding  vote  of  re- 
jection, and  in  triumph  descended  from  the  Vice-President's  rostrum  and 
his  own  high  standards  of  conduct: 


XIV  AMERICA  GROWS   UP  217 

'It  will  kiU  him,  sir,  kill  him  dead/  he  announced,  in  glee.  'He  will  never 
kick,  sir,  never  kick.' 

Instantly  Thomas  Hart  Benton  perceived  the  irony  of  the  situation.  'You 
have  broken  a  Minister,'  he  announced  confidently,  'and  elected  a  Vice- 
President.' M 

How  could  Calhoun's  madness  have  carried  him  so  far?  Even  Van  Buren 
himself  had  not  dared  hope  for  such  childishness  as  this.  But  the  damage 
was  done,  and  the  revenge  which  Calhoun  had  sought  to  turn  upon  his 
rival  was  again  turned  only  upon  himself. 

Administration  supporters  lost  no  time  in  showing  their  antagonism.  The 
leader  among  these  was  John  Forsyth  of  Georgia,  who  in  the  midst  of 
debate  one  day  lashed  out  bitterly  at  the  long-passed  attacks  of  the 
Calhoun  press. 

This  'touched  the  Vice-President  on  the  raw.'  He  turned  to  Forsyth. 
'Does  the  Senator  allude  to  me?' 

Forsyth  looked  at  him.  His  voice  vibrated  through  the  Chamber.  'By 
what  right  does  the  Chair  ask  that  question?'  he  demanded;  then  waited, 
giving  everyone  ample  time  to  reflect  that  actually  the  Vice-President  had 
no  right  to  speak  at  all.  'The  chair,'  runs  the  old  account,  'was  awed  into 
silence.'55 

But  Calhoun  was  beyond  all  clear  thinking  now.  The  clean,  bright  am- 
bitions of  his  youth  were  stained  with  bitterness.  Was  it  only  two  years 
since  he  had  sat  here,  the  friend  and  acknowledged  successor  of  Andrew 
Jackson,  his  'transcendent  abilities' 56  daily  praised  in  the  press,  his  pop- 
ularity daily  increasing,  both  with  the  Senate  and  the  country?  What  had 
happened?  The  same  room,  the  same  faces — and  yet  how  different!  He 
had  waited  so  long  for  the  fulfillment  of  his  hopes;  and  he  was  weary  of 
waiting.  Now  his  prize  had  slipped  from  him.  He  felt  that  he  had  been 
cheated  out  of  it,  and  he  had  some  right  to  think  so.  Men  could  say  that 
he  was  still  young  enough  to  form  an  alliance  with  Clay  for  future  benefits; 
but  what  did  they  know?  He  did  not  feel  young.  Mentally  at  forty-nine  he 
had  yet  to  reach  his  full  height,  but  physically,  intense  thinking  was 
wearing  him  out.57  A  small  boy,  taken  up  to  the  Vice-President's  rostrum, 
cried  out  in  terror  at  the  'ghost  with  burning  eyes,'  and  years  later  could 
remember  how  white  Calhoun's  face  had  been,  and  how  dark  and  blazing 
his  eyes.58  His  face  told  the  story.  The  dying  John  Randolph  studied  him 
closely.  'Calhoun  must  be  in  Hell,'  he  observed.  'He  is  self-mutilated,  like 
the  fanatic  that  emasculated  himself.' 59 

He  was  indeed  a  tortured  man.  There  is  tragedy  in  his  bottled-up  am- 
bitions, for  his  desire  was  not  for  himself  alone.  He  may  have  over- 
estimated his  responsibilities,  but  at  least  he  scorned  to  shirk  them.  Well 
did  he  know  the  intensity  of  feeling  that  gripped  South  Carolina  more 
firmly  with  every  passing  day.  Perhaps  he  knew,  too,  of  John  Tyler's 
letter  to  Hayne,  written  on  June  20,  1831,  with  its  assertion  that  if  the 


218  JOHN   C.   CALHOTJN 

'obnoxious'  Administration  of  Adams  had  been  continued,  even  Virginia 
would  have  adopted  'a  decided  course  of  resistance/  nullification  or  seces- 
sion, if  need  be.60 

What  could  Calhoun  now  do?  Almost  alone  among  statesmen  of  his 
time,  he  was  at  grips  with  fundamentals.  Nationalist  that  he  was,  he 
would  far  rather  take  positive  than  negative  action,  work  from  within 
rather  than  from  without.  It  was  the  dream  of  his  youth,  the  last  hope  of 
his  age,  that  as  President  he  might  attempt  his  own  reformation  of  the 
government,  restoring  the  Constitution  to  its  'primitive  purity.' 

His  baffled  ambitions  had  driven  him  to  states'  rights,  not  as  the  only 
means  of  saving  the  Union,  but  as  the  only  device  by  which  he  could 
save  the  Union,  and  the  rights  of  the  South  within  the  Union.  No  choice 
was  left  him.  As  he  told  James  Hammond,  so  far  as  his  relations  with 
Jackson  were  concerned,  he  'had  dissolved  all  ties,  political  ...  or  other- 
wise, with  him  and  forever.' 61  Yet  if  his  leadership  of  the  Southern  cause 
and  the  Southern  concept  of  the  Federal  Union  has  any  value  to  modem 
times,  his  quarrel  with  Jackson  may  even  have  been  providential.  Con- 
scious of  his  powers,  so  long  as  any  hope  of  the  Presidency  loomed  be- 
fore him,  he  would  have  been  tempted  to  compromise  his  principles.  Now 
no  political  considerations  tempered  his  fervor.  He  was  bitter  but  free, 
and  he  could  look  to  the  needs  of  the  South  with  a  single  eye.  " 


11 

Family  affairs  added  to  Calhoun's  cares.  He  had  been  'delighted'  in  1829 
when  his  oldest  boy,  Andrew,  decided  to  enter  Yale.  This  had  surprised 
Calhoun,  for  the  boy's  distaste  for  study  was  so  marked  that  his  father 
had  feared  to  'force'  him,  lest  he  develop  a  'permanent  disgust'  for  learn- 
ing. So  backward  was  he  in  'conick  sections  and  Trigonometry'  that  Cal- 
houn could  hope  only  that  he  might  attain  'respectable  .  .  .  standing.' 

In  letters  to  his  old  tutor  and  friend,  James  Kingsley,  Calhoun  had  at- 
tempted to  smooth  his  son's  way.  Andrew  would  rely  'on  your  kindness  for 
advice  and  encouragement.'  Particularly  did  Calhoun  beg  Kingsley's  aid 
in  finding  a  roommate  'of  good  character.'  Andrew,  he  hastened  to  add, 
had  always  been  such  a  son  'as  a  parent  might  desire' ;  he  did  not  know  that 
he  had  'a  single  bad  habit  or  inclination.'  Nevertheless,  mindful  of  the 
'secret  .  .  .  vice'  at  Yale  in  his  own  student  days,  Calhoun  would  deem 
'an  idle  or  immoral  roommate  a  great  misfortune.'  Intellectual  improve- 
ment was  nothing  beside  'correct  moral  deportment.' 

For  a  few  months  Calhoun  relived  his  own  student  days.  It  was  'a 
source  of  no  inconsiderable  pleasure'  to  him  that  Andrew  was  so  pleased 
with  Yale.  He  considered  it  'fortunate'  that  he  had  placed  'himself  .  .  . 


A   cartoon    drawn    during   the   Presidential    campaign    of    1832. 

Calhoun,  Clay,  Wirt,  and  Jackson  play  at  Brag,  a  form  of  poker. 

Clay  has  just  won  the  hand  with  his  three  aces.  Courtesy  of  the 

American  Antiquarian  Society,  Worcester,  Massachusetts 


XIV  AMERICA  GROWS  UP  219 

under  the  guidance  of  the  same  teachers  to  whose  superintendance  .  .  . 
I  owe  so  much';  that  Andrew  was  'in  the  same  class  with  so  many  of  the 
sons  of  my  old  class-mates.  ...  I  hope  that  he  will  cultivate  their  ac- 
quaintance.' Most  of  all,  he  was  amazed  that  his  boy  had  become  'fired 
with  an  ardent  zeal  to  acquire  knowledge.3  His  'constant  improvement' 
was  shown  in  every  letter  which  the  delighted  father  read  and  reread.62 

Then,  late  in  August,  came  news  as  'painful'  as  it  was  'unexpected.' 
An  'unfortunate  occurence'  had  'separated'  Andrew  and  'many  of  his  class- 
mates' from  Yale.63 

Probably  Calhoun  never  knew  the  whole  story.  The  'Conic  Sections 
Rebellion'  finds  no  place  in  the  official  histories  of  Yale  College.  Yet  in 
the  story  of  the  class  of  1832  it  looms  large.  For  a  large  proportion  of  the 
boys  were  actively  involved  in  the  student  mutiny  against  the  teaching 
of  'conick  sections3  which  resulted  in  the  'disruption'  of  the  class.  After- 
ward fifty-five  students  apologized  and  were  reinstated,  but  Andrew  Cal- 
houn was  not  among  them.6* 

For  the  Calhoun  pride  had  been  hurt — on  both  sides.  Once  more  An- 
drew's father  wrote  Kingsley,  but  his  tone  was  short,  almost  curt,  'For 
your  kind  attention  to  him  ...  my  acknowledgement.'  One  last  favor 
would  he  ask.  Would  Kingsley  tell  Andrew  that  his  father  had  written 
him  to  come  home,  in  case  the  letter  had  not  yet  arrived,  and  'knowing 
how  anxious  he  must  be  to  hear  from  me.' w  To  the  boy  himself  he  gave 
no  rebuke.  Between  the  lines  is  a  tone  of  indignation.  Calhoun  was  miffed, 
angry  that  his  son,  the  son  of  the  Vice-President  of  the  United  States, 
should  be  'separated'  so  summarily.  The  incident  was  closed,  but  Cal- 
houn's  relations  with  his  alma  mater  cooled,  and  although  he  took  a  mild 
interest  in  graduate  activities  throughout  his  life,  it  is  significant  that  of 
his  other  four  boys  not  one  was  entered  in  Yale. 


12 

It  was  another  one  of  Calhoun's  seven  children  *  that  brought  relief  to  his 
depressed  state  of  mind  through  these  years.  Burdened  as  he  was  with 
correspondence,  he  would  still  do  his  fatherly  duty  by  his  fourteen-year- 
old  daughter,  Anna  Maria,  in  boarding  school  in  the  fall  of  1831,  and 
away  from  home  for  the  first  time.  'I  set  you  the  example  of  being  a  very 
punctual  correspondent,'  he  wrote.  'Yesterday,  I  received  your  letter  and 
today  I  answer  it.' 

*  Andrew  Pickens  (October,  1811),  Floride  (January,  1814,  died  April  7,  1815), 

Anna  Maria  (February  13,  1817),  Elizabeth  (October,  1819,  died  March  22,  1820), 

Patrick  (February  9,  1821),  John  B.  (May  19,  1823),  Cornelia  (April  22,  1824), 
James  Edward  (April  23?,  1826),  Wilfiam  Lowndes  (August  13,  1829). 


220  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

He  had  not  dreamed  how  much  delight  Anna  Maria's  letters  would 
bring  him.  It  was  a  heart-warming  experience  to  share  his  thoughts  and 
feelings  with  his  daughter,  gently  to  guide  her  across  the  pitfalls  that 
he,  too,  had  known.  Yet  the  correspondence,  on  Anna's  side,  at  least,  had 
begun  under  compulsion.  He  would  not  scold  her  for  her  aversion  tov 
writing,  for  he  had  good  reason  to  believe  it  'in  some  degree  hereditary.' 
But  he  was  generous  enough  in  his  praise  to  spur  her  on  to  a  spirited 
correspondence. 

He  shared  her  joys  and  sorrows  with  the  same  understanding  that  she 
would  give  him  a  few  years  later.  'I  am  not  surprised  that  you  felt  so 
lonesome  at  first/  he  told  her,  mindful  of  his  own  early  days  in  Litchfield. 
'We  are  never  more  so,  than  when  in  the  midst  of  strangers,  but  you  acted 
like  a  philosopher,  when,  instead  of  giving  yourself  up  to  tears,  you  set 
about  removing  the  cause,  by  forming  the  acquaintance  of  those  around 
you.'  He  added  a  warning  out  of  his  own  reserve.  'Form  a  general  ac- 
quaintance with  all,  but  be  familiar  with  few  .  .  .  worthy  of  your  friend- 
ship.' 

This  was  his  way  of  guidance:  to  praise  and  encourage  her  virtues 
rather  than  to  ferret  out  her  weaknesses.  With  your  aversion  to  early 
rising,  you  deserve  much  praise  for  not  having  .  .  ,  "missed  prayers." 
I  commend  your  caution  in  declining  to  speak  of  your  associates  until 
you  have  had  more  time  to  form  your  opinion.  .  .  .  Much  of  the  mis- 
fortune of  life  comes  from  hasty  and  erroneous  conceptions  of  others.' 

Nowhere  in  Calhoun's  letters  is  the  Victorian  preachiness  which  so  in- 
fested parental  communications  of  the  period.  For  Anna's  physical  well- 
being  he  was  concerned;  he  would  urge  her  to  guard  her  health  and  her 
posture;  but  so  far  as  her  moral  welfare  went,  she  needed  no  advice;  she 
was  his  daughter  and  he  trusted  and  understood  her.  Almost  from  the 
first,  between  the  girl  of  fourteen  and  the  man  of  forty-nine,  the  relation- 
ship was  far  more  that  of  contemporaries  than  of  parent  and  child.  And 
Anna  Maria  responded  to  this  gentle  guidance.  Whatever  her  hopes,  she 
knew  that  her  father  would  understand.  He  wrote  her:  'I  will  .  .  .  send 
to  you  the  musick  which  you  request.  Give  a  full  and  fair  trial  to  your 
voice,  but  unless  it  should  prove  at  least  pretty  good,  it  would  be  an 
useless  consumption  of  time  to  become  a  Singer;  but  do  not  dispair  till 
you  have  made  a  fair  trial.' 

To  his  delight  he  found  that  this  girl,  of  all  his  children,  had  inherited 
his  own  dear  intellect  and  his  own  tastes.  'I  am  not  one  of  those,  who 
think  your  sex  ought  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  politicks,'  he  told  her. 
'They  have  as  much  interest  in  the  good  condition  of  their  country,  as 
the  other  sex,  and  tho'  it  would  be  unbecoming  them  to  take  an  active 
part  in  political  struggles,  their  opinion  .  .  .  cannot  fail  to  have  a  great 
.  .  .  effect.  ...  I  have  no  disposition  to  withold  political  information 
from  you.'  Yet  in  these  early  letters  he  still  discussed  political  questions 


XIV  AMERICA  GROWS  UP  221 

with  brevity.  He  could  write  her  of  his  health,  his  eagerness  to  be  home, 
how  painful  the  long  'seperations'  were  to  him.  But  the  heaviest  of  his 
burdens  he  would  not  yet  lay  upon  her  young  shoulders.  It  was  enough 
for  him  to  have  her  love  and  solicitude.  He  had  found  a  friend  in  his 
daughter,66 


XV 
Blue  Cockades  and  Dueling  Pistols 


To  FOREIGN  VISITORS  in  the  first  third  of  the  nineteenth  century,  Charles- 
ton was  the  most  'delightful'  city  in  the  United  States,1  perhaps  because, 
of  all  American  cities,  with  the  exception  of  New  Orleans,  Charleston 
looked  the  least  American,  Heat,  damp,  and  torrential  rains  had  faded 
the  orchids  and  pinks  of  the  crumbling  walls  into  an  'ancient  hue,72 
fragile  and  delicately  tinted  as  eggshells.  Already  war,  fires,  and  hurri- 
canes had  given  Charleston  the  time-worn  look  of  an  old  European  city; 
although  some  world  travelers,  looking  up  the  sandy  streets  where  sun- 
light glanced  off  bristling  yucca  and  palmettos,  and  groups  of  slatternly 
Negroes  lounged  at  every  street-corner,  would  recall  the  West  Indies  or 
the  Orient.8  If  there  was  a  hint  of  Holland  or  Flanders  in  the  turn  of  a 
gable,  those  slanting  rooftops  with  their  graceful  pantiles  might  have  been 
seen  glimmering  on  some  fifteenth-century  cathedral  in  Italy  or  Southern 
France. 

But  most  of  all,  Charleston  was  an  English  town.  'We  are  decidedly 
more  English  than  any  other  city  of  the  United  States/ 4  boasted  Hugh 
Legar&  Georgian  doorways  with  fluted  columns  opened  onto  long,  shaded 
galleries.  For  Britons,  fresh  from  soot-steeped  London  and  smoke-stained 
Lancaster,  to  see  Charleston,  the  mansion  houses  and  the  churches  of 
Christopher  Wren;  to  walk  into  those  drawing  rooms,  with  their  Doric 
pilasters  and  mock-India  wallpaper,  was  like  stepping  back  into  an  Eng- 
lish country  town  of  the  eighteenth  century  or  invading  the  stage-set  of 
a  comedy  by  Farquhar  or  Congreve.5  And  most  British  of  all  were  the 
people  themselves,  these  booted  and  spurred  'country  squires,'  with  their 
talk  of  horses  and  hunts  and  races,  and  the  echoes  of  London  tutors 
sounding  in  the  flatly  accented  speech  of  the  young  men.6 

And  their  hospitality!  As  the  scientist  Charles  Lyell  described  it, 
Charleston  had  'a  warmth  and  generousness  .  .  .  which  mere  wealth  can- 
not give.' 7  Even  little  Harriet  Martineau,  drawing  her  spinsterish  form 
rigid  against  the  blandishments  of  these  people  who  traded  in  human 
flesh,  gave  way  before  such  gestures  as  a  carriage  at  her  disposal  every 
day  of  her  visit,  tickets  to  the  newest  play  or  lecture  on  phrenology,  and 


XV  BLUE   COCKADES   AND   DUELING   PISTOLS  223 

bouquets  of  rare  hyacinths  with  her  breakfast  coffee.  Yes,  the  Charlesto- 
nians  knew  how  to  make  their  visitors  feel  more  than  at  home.8 

Although  society  had  an  unmistakably  aristocratic  tone,  its  'family'  de- 
mands were  flexible.  The  man  himself  meant  more  than  his  family,  and 
the  aristocratic  tradition  meant  more  than  the  individual  man.  Old  bar- 
riers had  been  broken  down  by  the  Revolution,  estates  subdivided,  and 
by  1850,  merchants  and  back-countrymen  could  win  their  way  into  the 
'charmed  circle7  of  Charleston  society.9  Old  names  and  old  families  meant 
much  in  theory,  but  old  Charleston  warmed  to  the  onrush  of  new  blood; 
and  in  practice  there  was  a  place  in  Charleston  for  the  self-made  aris- 
tocracy of  brains  and  character.  Men  like  George  McDuffie,  James  Louis 
Petigru,  and  John  C.  Calhoun,  up-coimtrymen  all,  and  all  with  Irish  blood, 
might  not  lead  the  dance  steps  at  the  Saint  Cecilia  Ball,  but  they  set  the 
patterns  of  Charleston  thought.  Society  was  pleasant  because  it  included 
all  who  could  make  it  pleasant  and  no  others.  In  Charleston  money  had 
its  power  and  family  its  place,  but  neither  of  these  alone  gave  entree  to 
breakfast  at  Joel  Poinsett's.10 

Requirements  for  an  invitation  were  high:  agreeableness  in  the  men, 
beauty  and  charm  in  the  women.  And  although  strangers  were  welcome, 
if  they  failed  to  pass  the  host's  tests,  they  were  never  invited  again. 

Here  came  the  Huger  cousins,  Alfred  and  Daniel,  each  slender,  tall, 
chiseled  of  feature,  Grecian  of  mind.  Here  came  the  Ravenels,  the  Rut- 
ledges,  the  Porchers.  You  saw  Thomas  Grimke — 'the  walking  dictionary/ 
writer  of  ponderous  and  unreadable  articles  in  the  Southern  Review;  and 
William  Elliott,  wildcat  hunter  and  author  of  the  racy  Piscator*  That 
dumpy  little  man  with  his  long  head  and  squinting  eyes,  his  shrill  voice 
rising  now  and  again  into  a  screech,  is  the  greatest  lawyer  in  America  in 
the  opinion  of  his  Charleston  neighbors,  and  no  man  in  the  city  is  more 
beloved.  He  loves  the  Union — loves  liberty;  yet  has  no  faith  in  the 
people's  ability  to  preserve  the  one  or  the  other.  This  gentle  cynic, 
James  Louis  Petigru,  professed  no  creed;  yet  when  summoned  to  court 
on  Good  Friday  he  sternly  reminded  the  judge  that  only  Pontius  Pilate 
had  held  a  judicial  session  that  day.11 

One  face — one  man,  although  silent  and  alone — would  have  compelled 
any  visitor's  attention.  Proud,  somber,  high-bred,  it  is  the  face  of  a 
Byron — or  of  a  Greek  god.  The  handsomest  man  in  Charleston  is  Hugh 
Legar6 — until  he  rises  to  his  feet  and  shambles  across  the  floor,  visibly 
shrinking  from  the  curious  and  pitying  glances  that  fall  on  his  dwarfed 
body,  his  shriveled  and  misshapen  legs.12  Close  at  his  side  is  a  younger 
man,  an  unforgettable  face — bitter,  sardonic — with  square  forehead  and 
arrogantly  flaring  nostrils,  Robert  Barnwell  Rhett,  most  brilliant  among 
them — and  most  disturbing. 

A  few  faces  around  Joel  Poinsett's  breakfast  table  are  already  familiar. 
Calhoun  was  there,  of  course,  on  the  rare  occasions  when  he  was  in  town; 


224  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

and  friends  separated  from  him  over  the  months  would  be  quick  to  mark 
the  changes  that  unrelenting  labor  and  strain  were  working  upon  him. 
His  slender  figure  was  as  lithe,  his  clear  eyes  as  piercing,  as  ever;  but 
already  he  was  looking  'haggard  and  careworn/  far  older  than  his  years.18 
Nearby  would  be  young  McDuffie,  equally  tense  and  overstrung;  and 
debonair  Robert  Hayne.  That  huge  head  and  bulging  forehead  bring  back 
memories,  although  it  is  hard  to  recognize  in  this  rotund  figure,  Langdon 
Cheves,  the  spirited  young  War  Hawk  of  18 12.14 

And  if  ever  a  man  had  been  born  to  personify  the  aristocratic  ideal  in 
practice — not  in  theory — it  was  the  host,  Joel  Poinsett  himself.  Grandson 
of  a  highly  respectable  and  skillful  Huguenot  silversmith,  who  might  have 
found  much  in  common  with  Boston's  Paul  Revere,  Poinsett's  openly 
admiring  allusions  to  his  ancestor  were  the  despair  of  his  low-country  wife. 
'Manor-born/  she  had  only  accepted  the  swarthy  little  man,  for  whom 
the  poinsettia  was  named,  after  she  had  previously  jilted  him,  married 
and  become  a  widow,  leaving  her  faithful  suitor  to  years  of  bachelorhood. 

But  they  were  by  no  means  empty  years.  Poinsett,  dark,  slender,  in- 
credibly delicate  in  health — he  often  said  that  he  had  been  able  to  live 
most  comfortably  for  twenty  years  with  only  one  lung15 — lived  fully 
and  happily  as  well.  He  served  as  Ambassador  to  Mexico  and  Secretary 
of  State,  alternated  between  the  South  Carolina  Legislature  and  the  United 
States  Congress.  He  had  been  Vice-President  Calhoun's  messenger  to 
John  Quincy  Adams,  bearing  the  secret  message  that  if  Adams  would 
desist  from  appointing  Clay  to  the  Cabinet,  Mr.  Calhoun  would  support 
the  Administration;  and  later  was  President  Jackson's  secret  agent  in 
Charleston  during  the  nullification  crisis. 

At  table  Calhoun  might  even  have  rivaled  his  host,  however;  for  con- 
temporaries generally  agreed  with  the  young  Congressman  who  proclaimed 
Calhoun  'the  most  charming  man  in  conversation  I  ever  heard.'1*  At 
Poinsett's  there  were  no  restrictions  upon  subject  matter.  At  Judge 
Huger's,  too,  politics  were  drunk  with  the  Madeira,  and  young  men  in 
ruffled  shirts  and  flamboyant  waistcoats  listened  with  wary  intentness  as 
history  was  discussed  by  the  men  who  were  making  it.  But  it  was  only  in 
a  few  Charleston  homes  that  politics  prevailed;  it  was  art  at  the  Middle- 
tons'  and  literature  at  the  Prioleaus'. 

In  a  single  decade  Charleston  had  reached  maturity.  Only  in  1827  had 
a  scornful  townsman  denounced  the  city  on  the  Ashley  as  'a  scene  of  in- 
action' to  Calhoun's  friend,  James  MacBride.  There  was  'no  prospect  of 
pleasure  in  Charleston'  for  those  'of  a  highly  elevated  cast.' 17  But  now, 
how  different!  The  city  had  its  literary  groups,  its  men  of  letters,  such 
as  William  J.  Greyson  of  Defense  of  Slavery  fame;  William  Crafts, 
whose  rhymed  couplets  in  The  Raciad  were  pronounced  to  rival  Pope's 
for  dexterity  of  phrase  and  originality  of  thought;  Grimke,  and  Elliott. 
Writing  was  still  deemed  a  polite  accomplishment  rather  than  a  means  of 


XV  BLUE   COCKADES   AND  DUELING  PISTOLS  225 

livelihood;  but  at  the  fortnightly  gatherings,  at  Judge  Prioleau's,  Charles- 
ton's most  talented  voices  and  intellects  shared  their  thoughts  with  their 
admiring  contemporaries.  Here  Charles  Fraser,  the  miniature  artist,  first 
voiced  his  stately  reminiscences  of  Revolutionary  days,  later  published  in 
book  form.  Hugh  Legare  spoke  on  his  absorbing  passion,  'The  Greek  Re- 
publics/ and  Poinsett  on  'The  Republics  of  South  America.'  Similar 
evenings  flourished  at  Judge  King's,  where  the  host  himself  was  typical 
of  the  'new'  Charleston  aristocracy.  A  poor  immigrant  boy  from  Scotland, 
by  force  of  character  and  self-education  he  had  made  himself  a  leader 
of  the  intelligentsia. 

But  at  the  name  of  William  Gilmore  Simms  eyebrows  lifted  haughtily. 
Charleston  circles  had  no  entr6e  for  this  earthy  young  Elizabethan,  with  a 
strong,  handsome  face  and  racy  speech;  a  lawyer  now,  but  a  slaveless, 
landless  apothecary's  apprentice  only  a  few  years  before.  What  place  did 
his  'swamp-suckers'  and  'Border  Beagles,'  his  'rapscallions  and  black- 
guards,' have  in  polite  society?  Britain  could  call  him  an  American  Field- 
ing; an  exasperated  visitor  would  cry  out,  'If  he  is  not  your  great  man, 
for  God's  sake,  who  is?'  Charleston  was  unimpressed — and  unmoved.18 

Charleston  had  its  art;  there  was  Washington  Allston,  although  he, 
too,  had  been  snubbed  at  home  until  approval  had  been  nodded  in  Euro- 
pean capitals.  But  his  brilliant  pupil,  Samuel  Morse,  had  arrived  in  town, 
to  win  success  in  1818;  there  was  John  White  with  his  historical  pano- 
ramas; and  Fraser,  the  schoolmate  and  teacher  of  the  great  Sully,  en- 
compassing so  much  honesty  and  power  in  the  limits  of  the  miniature. 
Portrait  artists  like  John  Wesley  Jarvis,  with  gifts  for  painting  gentility 
into  faces  where  it  was  important  that  gentility  be  seen,  were  always 
sure  of  a  welcome  in  self-conscious  Charleston.  Portraits,  the  work  of 
masters  like  Van  Dyck  and  Reynolds,  hung  on  paneled  walls  beside  those 
by  Lawrence  and  Sully;  it  was  part  of  the  tradition  to  patronize  both  the 
old  and  the  new.  Modern  Greek  and  Italian  sculpture  loomed  white 
through  the  hangings  of  Spanish  moss;  but  there  was  room,  too,  for  the 
Greek  revivalism  of  Architect  Robert  Mills,  and  for  the  contemporary 
American  sculptors  like  Hiram  Powers  and  Clark  Mills,  whom  the  Charles- 
ton City  Council  would  one  day  vote  a  medal  of  thanks  for  his  marble 
bust  of  Calhoun.19 

Charleston,  like  Paris,  was  a  woman's  town.  The  ladies  set  the  tone  of 
society;  the  teatable  was  the  'center  of  polished  intercourse,'  and  it  was 
the  ladies  who  sent  their  compliments  and  the  invitations  to  tea.20 

Always  the  Southern  code  prevailed.  There  were  beauties,  but  their 
charms  were  displayed  only  in  the  drawing  room.  There  were  musicians, 
but  they  played  only  for  their  families  and  closest  friends.  Women  ruled, 
but  they  ruled  and  warred  through  their  husbands. 

Yet  Charleston  had  its  salon  and  its  salon  queen.  She  was  Mrs.  Hol- 
land, a  beautiful  woman,  slender  and  tall,  with  dark  eyes  and  always  a 


226  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

jeweled  fillet  around  her  smooth  hair.  Men  were  aware  of  her  white  skin 
and  round  arms;  women  noted  the  classic  drapery  of  her  clothes,  the 
flowing  sleeves  and  the  lace  veil  over  her  head.  Half  Greek  in  an  era 
when  Robert  Mills's  temples  were  foremost  in  the  public  mind,  her 
exoticism  and  plaintive  songs  in  softly  accented  Italian  and  Greek,  sung 
to  the  music  of  a  guitar,  accounted  for  much  of  her  charm.  But  it  was 
her  savoir-faire  that  won  the  admiration  of  all.  Secure  in  herself,  she  rose 
above  the  limitations  of  poverty,  two  rooms,  and  scant  furniture.  To  her 
parties  came  'eagerly  everyone — the  very  flower  of  the  town/21  Un- 
doubtedly Calhoun,  too,  found  his  way  to  her  door,  took  a  seat  on  the 
shawl-draped  bed  or  on  a  soapbox,  accepted  lemonade  and  sweet  wafers, 
and  surrendered  himself,  as  all  did,  to  'the  pleasure  of  spending  an  evening 
with  Mrs.  Holland.' 


This  was  not  the  Charleston  of  Calhoun's  law-student  days.  There  was 
still  the  same  muted,  mellow  beauty,  the  same  depths  of  shade  under  the 
old  trees  on  the  City  Square.  There  was  the  same  overpowering  scent  of 
crushed  figs  against  crumbling  brick  sidewalks,  and  of  Pride-of-India 
trees,  bringing  back  nostalgic  memories  of  lilac  bushes  in  New  England, 
twenty-five  years  before.22  Again  Calhoun  could  feel  his  way  up  the 
spiral  staircase  in  the  tower  of  Saint  Michael's,  look  down  upon  the 
slant-roofed  city,  caught  in  the  embrace  of  the  two  shining  rivers;  hear 
the  silence  and  then  the  jangle  of  voices  as  the  wind  tossed  up  the  sounds 
of  the  street,  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  feet  below.23 

But  Charleston  had  changed.  The  protective  tariff  had  done  its  work. 
In  the  harbor,  where  but  a  few  years  before  the  ships  of  the  world  had 
lain  scattered  like  snowflakes,  now  only  an  occasional  sail  whitened  and 
filled.  Rotting  and  empty  were  the  wharves,  once  piled  with  'London 
duffle  and  Bristol  blankets,'  'Spanish  segars,'  and  'Scotch  Snuff  in  bot- 
tles.' **  Foreign  trade  was  shattered.  Poverty  had  struck  the  city  like  a 
blight,  with  grass  literally  growing  in  more  than  one  of  the  downtown 
streets. 

Gone  was  the  buoyant,  ebullient  Charleston  of  Calhoun's  youth.  Under 
a  rippling  surface  of  laughter  and  gaiety,  thought  ran  deep.  Puritanism 
had  set  its  mark  upon  the  Charleston  of  tie  English  tradition;  and  the  old 
French  ways  were  overlaid  now  with  a  new  democratic-aristocracy.  It 
was  the  Huguenots  and  Scotch-Irish  who  set  the  new  tone  of  Charleston 
society,  thoughtful,  self-disciplined  men,  'conscious  that  they  were  living 
in  the  eye  of  God.'  * 

Hugh  Legare  was  the  living  personification  of  this  new  'moral'  Charles- 
ton, His  French  blood  long  since  washed  out  by  a  passionate  infusion  of 


XV  BLUE   COCKADES   AND  DUELING  PISTOLS  227 

Scottish  Covenanter  blood,  he  was  as  much  the  Puritan  as  Calhoun, 
'equally  introspective/  and  steeped  in  melancholy.  And  for  every  young 
Carolina  buck  who  proclaimed  his  belief  in  the  divinity  of  Christ  on  the 
one  hand  and  proudly  recounted  his  amours  on  the  other  2e  were  two  like 
Calhoun  and  Legare,  who  practiced  a  'strict  morality/  upholding  a  Puri- 
tanism 'of  conduct  rather  than  dogma.'  ** 

Legare  knew  Charleston's  tragedy.  He  knew  that  in  this  small  city 
pulsed  the  last  heartbeats  of  the  eighteenth  century,  the  last  American 
attempt  to  uphold  the  aristocratic  ideal,  to  build  an  ordered  and  stable 
society  upon  the  instabilities  of  a  young  democracy.  Both  Legar£  and  Cal- 
houn understood  that  the  'new  American'  industrial  democracy  was  actu- 
ally neither  new  nor  American.  It  was  the  raucous  voice  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  with  young  America  as  its  sounding  board.  From  the  first 
they  saw  it  as  a  challenge  to  their  civilization. 

For  with  their  roots  sunk  in  the  soil,  up-countrymen  and  Charlestonians 
alike  were  united  in  their  fear  of  the  Northern  factory  system  which 
'killed  a  man's  inner  glow.5  *  The  North  could  boast  of  the  kind  of  free- 
dom that  saw  the  mill-hand  rise  to  the  mill  presidency  in  a  single  genera- 
tion. But  what  of  the  hapless  thousands  who  sweated  on  the  workbenches 
all  their  lives  long  for  ninety  cents  a  day?  Men  should  control  their  own 
time,  contended  the  Southern  leaders,  develop  their  own  capabilities, 
rather  than  speed  their  bodies  and  minds  to  the  tempo  of  machinery. 
Hence,  they  dung  to  agriculture,  basing  their  society  on  preference  rather 
than  reason.  Even  the  Charlestonians  had  chosen  the  agrarian  life.  It  was 
not  the  merchants  and  businessmen,  the  'year-round'  citizenry  who  gave 
Charleston  its  peculiar  flavor,  but  the  rice  and  cotton  planters,  who  lived 
in  the  city  only  three  or  four  months  in  the  year.  The  representative 
Charlestonian  was  an  equally  representative  planter. 

In  the  South  the  values  were  set  from  the  top,  unlike  the  North  and 
later  the  West,  where  the  people  made  their  own  way  of  life,  and  values 
were  lowered  for  popular  consumption.  In  the  South  civilization  was  a 
stabilized  ideal  toward  which  all  white  men  could  aspire,  but  its  ulti- 
mate goals  they  neither  could  nor  wanted  to  change.  For  in  the  South 
aristocracy  was  not  the  possession  of  the  chosen  few;  it  was  the  ideal  of 
the  whole.  This  was  a  civilization  upon  which  strong  men  could  make 
their  imprint:  aristocratic  in  its  ideal;  democratic  in  the  availability  of 
the  ideal. 

What  was  America — Northern  opportunity  or  Southern  self-realization, 
Northern  democracy  or  Southern  republicanism?  Had  the  South  abandoned 
the  American  idea,  or  had  the  American  idea  abandoned  the  South?  North 
and  South  the  gulf  was  widening.  'Washington  left  a  ...  pure  republic 
...  it  has  now  settled  down  into  a  democracy/  *  noted  Captain  Marryat 
in  1839.  Only  in  the  South  did  that  form  of  government  survive  in  which 
men  chose  from  the  highest  those  free  to  think  for  the  lowest.  An  in- 


228  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

teHectual  aristocracy  was  not  deemed  alien  to  political  freedom.  The  classes 
were  fluid;  economically  men's  interests  were  one;  and  socially  there  was 
the  goal  toward  which  all  might  aspire. 

Charleston  had  voiced  the  ideal.  And  deliberately,  knowingly,  South 
Carolina  and  the  whole  South  had  chosen.  Not  progress  toward  the  un- 
known, but  a  reblending  of  the  known.  Not  industrialism,  but  agrarian- 
ism.  Not  the  future,  but  the  past.  The  South  had  chosen  and  the  South 
was  doomed,  for  when  the  old  and  the  new  clash,  the  old  must  in  the 
end  give  way.  Calhoun  had  yet  to  learn  this,  but  Legar6  understood,  and 
his  vision  was  bitter.  He  would  not  be  alive  on  that  April  day  in  1865 
when  the  Charleston  ideal  would  be  blown  to  atoms  by  the  guns  of  the 
Civil  War.  But  he  knew,  nevertheless.  We  are  the  last  of  the  race  of  Caro- 
lina; I  see  nothing  before  us  but  decay  and  downfall.  ...  I  ask  of 
heaven  only  that  the  little  circle  I  am  intimate  with  in  Charleston  be  kept 
together.'80 


This  sense  of  approaching  doom  which  overshadowed  the  South  after 
1820  was  felt,  not  only  by  contemporary  visitors,  but  by  many  subse- 
quent writers.*  Already  apparent  to  the  thinking  were  the  two  sources 
of  this  apprehension,  closely  if  not  inextricably  interwoven.  Fundamental 
was  the  fear  that  a  way  of  life  was  imperiled;  secondly,  there  was  the 
growing,  half-realized,  finally  acknowledged  fear  that  slavery  was  threat- 
ened. The  importance  of  this  question  in  a  study  of  Calhoun  can  hardly 
be  overestimated.  It  is  basic  in  his  whole  mature  career;  more  important, 
it  is  the  essence  of  the  often-debated  question  as  to  the  cause  of  the  Civil 
War;  most  important  for  our  own  time,  it  is  at  the  heart  of  America's 
present  dilemma:  the  problem  of  maintaining  the  essential  values  of  a 
way  of  life  while  shuffling  off  its  evil  practices. 

No  one  today  would  deny  the  evils  of  slavery.  Few  would  have  denied 
them  in  the  South  before  the  eighteen-thirties.  No  doubt  modern  psy- 
chologists would  find  an  undeniable  guilt  complex  in  the  South's  tension 
and  fears,  in  the  very  vehemence  of  its  refusals,  in  the  name  of  economic 
necessity,  to  face  the  evils  of  the  system.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  exact  reversal 
of  that  unacknowledged  sense  of  guilt  among  the  Northerners;  themselves 
but  a  generation  removed  from  slave-ownership,,  slave  trading  and  selling, 
who  could  relieve  their  moral  responsibility  by  joining  the  outcry  of  the 
abolitionists.  For  this  the  Southerners  could  not  afford  to  do.  The  defense 

*See  Harriet  Martineau's  description  of  the  tense  and  fearful  Charlestonians  of 
the  eighteen-thirties,  their  *want  of  repose*  and  restless  gaiety  in  Retrospect  of  Western 
Travel. 


XV  BLUE  COCKADES  AND  DUELING  PISTOLS  229 

of  slavery  as  a  'positive  good'  arose  as  Southern  whites  became  increas- 
ingly convinced  that  without  slavery  their  fundamental  society  could  not 
survive;  and  secondly,  that  by  a  sudden,  unplanned  liberation  of  the  slaves, 
the  whole  South  would  be  plunged  into  an  era  of  want,  suffering,  and 
social  chaos. 

The  South's  fears  were  realized;  the  delicate  questions,  susceptible  of 
solution  only  by  a  slow  and  intricate  intellectual  process,  were  instead 
judged  by  the  violence  of  war.  Since  Appomattox,  the  whole  South,  both 
black  and  white,  has  been  living  in  the  wreckage,  working  out,  not  a  solu- 
tion to  its  problems,  but  a  hand-to-mouth  modus  vivendi.  That  slavery 
was  smashed,  not  only  by  force  of  arms,  but  by  the  righteous  fury  of  a 
moral  crusade,  is  morally  significant,  but  temporarily,  at  least,  has  proved 
intellectually  and  practically  disastrous.  The  forced  destruction  of  the 
existing  social  system  could  not  alter  human  relationships. 

Whether  the  South  today,  in  the  throes  of  war-boom  prosperity,  will 
sacrifice  the  remaining  values  of  its  way  of  life  by  accepting  the  industrial 
democracy  against  which  Calhoun  fought;  or  whether  it  can,  at  last,  work 
out  a  new  life  holding  the  good  of  its  dream,  untainted  by  either  the  dark 
stain  of  slavery  or  of  industrial  tyranny,  is  perhaps  America's  foremost 
problem.  Ironically  enough,  it  is  at  the  very  moment  when  the  weaknesses 
of  industrial  democracy  which  revolted  Calhoun  are  at  last  becoming 
apparent  to  those  who  live  under  the  system  that  it  is  only  too  likely  to 
be  embraced  by  the  Carolinian's  fellow  countrymen. 


But  to  surrender  before  the  battle  began,  even  with  the  knowledge  that 
the  victory  was  lost,  was  not  in  Calhoun's  code.  There  was  a  fight  worth 
fighting;  there  were  issues  with  meaning.  There  was  that  fanaticism  in 
Calhoun's  Covenanter  blood  which,  with  the  knowledge  that  his  motives 
were  pure,  would  drive  him  on  regardless  of  consequences.  He  under- 
stood what  the  Southern  life  meant,  and  not  only  was  he  convinced  of  its 
values,  but  he  was  confident  of  the  weapons  that  he  would  use  to  defend 
them.  'I  know  that  I  am  right,'  he  said  of  nullification.  'I  have  gone  over 
the  ground  more  carefully  than  I  ever  did  anything  before,  and  I  cannot 
be  mistaken.' S1 

For  all  their  Puritanism,  Charlestonians  had  distrusted  Calhoun  at  first. 
<A  monomaniac  consumed  by  a  single  idea,'  was  Legar6's  dismissal  of 
the  man,  who  even  more  than  himself  would  give  weight  and  meaning 
to  the  tradition  of  the  city.  LegarS  could  sneer  at  Calhoun's  'romantic' 
dreams  of  a  Greek  democracy,  when  his  own  thoughts  dissolved  in  highly 
colored  visions  of  a  parliament  of  man  and  a  federation  of  the  world.32 


230  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

Yet  he  knew,  and  Charleston  would  come  to  know,  that  what  meant  the 
most  to  them  meant  the  most  to  Calhoun. 

Nullification,  however,  was  still  more  theory  than  action.  It  was  'in 
abeyance7  still.  Three  years  had  passed.  The  tariff  was  still  on  the  books; 
Southern  profits  and  Southern  power  diminishing  day  by  day.  And  that 
Calhoun  had  been  no  more  than  a  'quiet  onlooker,'  during  the  long  years 
when  the  crisis  was  brewing,  added  to  Charleston's  distrust  of  him.  His 
authorship  of  the  Exposition  was  an  open  secret  in  South  Carolina,  if  not 
in  the  nation,  but  his  failure  to  acknowledge  and  legitimize  it  was  a  black 
mark  against  him.  He  was  playing  politics,  it  was  generally  conceded, 
and  South  Carolina  was  impatient,  and  justifiably  so.  A  Columbia  editor 
sounded  warning:  'Mr.  Calhoun  must  follow  his  state.  If  not,  South 
Carolina  does  not  go  with  Mr.  Calhoun.' 88 

For  three  years  Calhoun  had  striven  to  avoid  the  inevitable.  He  had 
tried  his  personal  influence  with  Jackson  and  failed.  He  had  forged  nul- 
lification as  a  double-edged  weapon,  as  a  last  hope  for  the  South  and  as 
a  threat  to  the  North,  compelling  surrender  to  Southern  terms.  It  was 
working  in  reverse;  it  was  only  stiffening  Northern  determination  and 
Northern  resistance.  For  love  of  the  Union  and  at  grave  risk  to  his 
popularity  among  his  own  people,  Calhoun  had  held  the  rebellious  ele- 
ments of  the  state  in  check.  Now  the  pressures  upon  him  were  too  strong. 
If  he  failed  to  support  South  Carolina's  war  against  the  tariff,  his  South- 
ern influence  was  at  an  end.  Whether  or  not  he  endorsed  nullification, 
Jackson  had  ended  his  national  influence.  Only  one  choice  remained.  He 
could  seek  favor  now  only  at  the  hands  of  the  South,  and  the  South  was 
pushing  him  into  action. 


Whether  without  the  safety-valve  of  nullification,  South  Carolina  would 
have  resorted  to  outright  secession  is  one  of  those  hypothetical  questions 
impossible  to  answer.  As  early  as  1829,  Poinsett,  horrified  to  discover  in 
Charleston,  where  actual  nullification  had  gained  little  ground,  a  torrent 
of  defiance  against  the  national  government,  had  dedicated  himself  to 
the  fight  to  keep  South  Carolina  in  the  Union.  His  efforts  had  been  momen- 
tarily successful;  at  the  1830  elections,  Unionists  had  gained  control  of 
the  Legislature,  but  their  victory  was  short-lived. 

Calhoun's  old  teacher,  Chancellor  De  Saussure,  probably  came  closest 
to  expressing  his  state's  view  when  he  proclaimed  in  1831  that  the  tariff 
was  against  'the  spirit  of  the  Constitution,'  and  'weakening  the  attach- 
ment of  the  South  to  the  Union.'  Any  outright  desire  for  secession,  the 
Charlestonian  dismissed  as  a  fable  'of  a  distempered  imagination,'  al- 
though he  warned  that  'ultimately  .  .  .  our  people  would  prefer  even 


XV  BLUE  COCKADES   AND  DUELING  PISTOLS  231 

that  ...  to  having  a  government  of  unlimited  powers.  .  .  .  We  are 
divided/  he  wrote,  'into  nearly  equal  parts,  not  at  all  as  to  the  evil  .  .  . 
but  ...  the  remedy.  ...  If  the  tariff  .  .  .  become  the  settled  policy 
of  the  government  ...  the  separation  of  the  Union  will  inevitably  follow; 
which  I  pray  God  I  may  not  live  to  see.'  **  And  so  clearly  do  the  old 
Chancellor's  words  reflect  Calhoun's  fears  that  it  is  impossible  to  doubt 
that  Calhoun  visited  his  home  sometime  during  these  months,  and  un- 
burdened himself  to  his  teacher  of  years  past. 

Tom  between  his  nullification  theories  and  his  knowledge  of  the  prac- 
tical concessions  that  would  have  to  be  made,  Calhoun's  mind  was  fever- 
ishly active.  Young  James  Hammond,  dropping  in  on  him  at  seven 
o'clock  on  a  March  morning  in  1831  in  Columbia,  found  him  hard  at  work 
on  a  plan  for  co-ordination  of  'the  three  great  interests  of  the  nation.'  The 
North,  he  told  Hammond,  was  for  industry,  the  South  for  fanning  and 
free  trade,  the  West  for  internal  improvements.  He  had  long  favored 
such  improvements.  He  was  for  them  still,  but  he  doubted  their  constitu- 
tionality. Hence,  the  Constitution  must  be  amended,  and  'the  channels 
of  the  West'  connected  with  those  to  the  Atlantic.  This  would  unite  the 
South  and  West,  which  'must  be  reconciled  to  save  the  Union.' 

As  for  the  tariff,  it  'might  be  so  adjusted  as  to  suit  the  Northern  people 
better  than  it  does  now.'  The  general  increase  of  duties  *had  diminished 
.  .  .  profits  ...  by  adding  to  the  cost  of  everything/  But  the  'system 
of  plunder  .  .  .  the  traffic  of  interests'  was  'despicable.'  Unless  protec- 
tion were  modified,  disunion  was  'inevitable/ 

He  spoke  bitterly.  Hammond  listened  in  bewilderment  as  Calhoun  put 
on  his  hat  and  led  him  out  for  a  walk,  talking  rapidly  all  the  while.  He 
wanted,  he  said,  to  become  'more  Southern.'  And  at  his  sudden  remark, 
that  Clay's  partisans  so  hated  Jackson,  they  would  take  Calhoun  with 
'nullification  on  his  head,'  Hammond  was  startled.  He  knew  what  his 
host  meant  now. 

His  opinion  was  strengthened  that  evening  when  the  pair  met  again 
for  tea.  Calhoun's  unwonted  energy  of  the  morning  had  burned  itself  out, 
and  Hammond  found  him  'much  less  disposed  to  harangue  than  usual.' 
There  was  'a  listlessness  about  him  which  shows  that  his  mind  is  deeply 
engrossed,'  and  to  Hammond  there  was  no  doubt  that  it  was  once  more 
fixed  upon  the  subject  of  the  Presidency.  'He  is  undoubtedly  quite  fever- 
ish under  the  present  excitement  and  his  hopes.'  ^ 


On  a  steaming  day  in  late  July,  1831,  Calhoun,  'goaded  into  despera- 
tion by  his  opponents,'  set  pen  to  paper.  He  flinched  from  no  premise, 
no  conclusion.  His  meaning  was  unmistakably  clear.  Ours  was  a  union 


232  JOHN  C.  CALHOUN 

of  states,  not  of  individuals.  The  Constitution  was  a  compact,  to  which 
each  'free  and  independent7  State  in  the  Constitutional  Convention  had 
separately  linked  its  own  citizens.  Hence,  each  state  had  the  right  to 
judge  of  the  power  it  had  delegated,  and  in  the  last  resort — to  use  the 
language  of  the  Virginia  Resolutions — 'to  interpose  for  arresting  .  .  . 
evil.'  The  question  was  simple.  Was  our  government  national  or  federal? 
Did  it  rest  on  the  sovereignty  of  the  states  or  the  unrestrained  will  of  the 
majority? 

Thus,  boldly,  Calhoun  laid  his  premises.  He  could  still  concede  that 
there  might  be  a  difference  of  opinion,  still  admit  that  'The  error  may 
possibly  be  with  me.'  But  now  he  could  see  no  error.  So  deeply  did  he 
feel  the  necessity  of  a  way  out  that  the  missing  link  he  had  once  sought 
hopelessly  in  agony  of  spirit,  'be  it  called  what  it  may — State-right,  veto, 
nullification,  or  by  another  name — I  conceive  to  be  the  fundamental  prin- 
ciple of  our  system,  resting  on  facts  historically  as  certain  as  our  revolu- 
tion itself.' 

It  was  the  past  against  the  present,  the  ghost  of  Jefferson  against  the 
very  much  alive  John  Marshall,  who  had  been  piling  precedent  upon 
precedent  in  the  years  since  Marbury  v.  Madison  and  Fletcher  v.  Peck 
had  established  the  'right'  of  the  Supreme  Court  to  declare  acts  of  states 
or  nation  unconstitutional.  And  it  was  not  in  the  Kentucky  and  Virginia 
Resolutions,  but  in  these  last  years  of  his  life,  that  Jefferson  challenged 
Marshall,  declaring  that  if  the  federal  and  state  'departments'  of  gov- 
ernment were  to  clash,  'a  convention  of  the  states  must  be  called  to  ascribe 
the  doubtful  power  to  that  department  which  they  may  think  best.' 

Here  Calhoun  rested  his  case.  Ultimate  authority,  he  contended,  was  not 
in  the  national  government,  'a  government  with  all  the  rights  and  authority 
which  belong  to  any  other  government,'  but  in  the  power  that  called  that 
government  into  being — the  states. 

He  stressed  his  'deep  and  sincere  attachment  to  ...  the  Union  of 
these  States  ...  the  great  instruments  of  preserving  our  liberty  and 
promoting  happiness.'  Half  of  his  life  and  all  of  his  public  services  were 
'indissoluably  identified'  with  the  Union.  'To  be  too  national'  had  in  the 
past  been  considered  his  'greatest  fault.'  No  one  'could  have  more  respect 
for  the  maxim  that  the  majority  ought  to  govern'  than  he,  but  only  'where 
the  interests  are  the  same  .  .  .  where  laws  that  benefit  one  benefitted  all.' 
Where  laws  helpful  to  one  group,  however,  were  'ruinous  to  another,' 
simple  majority  rule  was  'unjust.  .  .  .  Let  it  never  be  forgotten  that 
where  the  majority  rules  without  restraint,  the  minority  is  the  subject.' 
Happily  we  had  'no  artificial  and  separate  classes  of  society.'  But  we  were 
not  exempt  from  'contrarity  of  interests,'  like  this  sad  'conflict  flowing 
directly  from  the  tariff.' 

Could  not  the  tide  be  turned?  Did  the  Union  itself,  'as  ordained  by 
the  Constitution,'  provide  no  means  of  drawing  together  'every  portion 


XV  BLUE  COCKADES   AND  DUELING  PISTOLS  233 

of  our  country,7  through  a  common  and  identical  interest?  Would  this 
'contrarity  of  interests'  become  subject  to  the  unchecked  will  of  a  ma- 
jority, defeating  the  whole  great  end  of  government — 'justice3?  To  answer 
in  the  affirmative,  declared  Calhoun,  would  be  to  admit  that  'our  Union 
has  utterly  failed.'  Nothing  could  force  him  to  a  conclusion  'so  abhorrent 
to  all  my  feelings.' 

Idealistically  Calhoun  could  hope  for  ca  state  of  intelligence  so  uni- 
versal and  high  that  all  the  guards  of  liberty  may  be  dispensed  with  ex- 
cept an  enlightened  public  opinion/  acting  through  the  vote.  But  this 
would  presuppose  'a  state  where  every  class  and  section  ...  are  capable 
of  estimating  the  effects  of  every  measure,  not  only  as  it  may  effect  itself, 
but  .  .  .  every  other  class  and  section;  and  of  fully  realizing  the  sublime 
truth  that  the  highest  and  wisest  policy  consists  in  maintaining  justice, 
and  .  .  .  harmony;  and  that  compared  to  these,  schemes  of  mere  gain 
are  but  trash  and  dross.'  Somber  experience  had  taught  him  that  'we  are 
far  removed  from  such  a  state,'  and  that  we  must  rely  on  the  'old  and 
clumsy'  mode  of  checking  power  to  prevent  abuse,  of  'invoking  a  consti- 
tution to  restrain  a  government,  as  laws  were  invoked  to  restrain  in- 
dividuals.' ** 

Thus,  to  the  South  in  his  so-called  'Fort  Hill  Letter/  to  the  North  in 
five  columns  in  the  New  York  Courier  and  Enquirer,  Calhoun  gave  ex- 
pression to  the  'natural,  peaceful,  and  proper  remedy'  against  grievances 
— nullification.  But  in  New  York's  and  the  nation's  opinion,  the  remedy 
was  neither  'natural'  nor  'proper.'  Its  full  implications  would  not  be  un- 
derstood until  action  supplanted  words,  but  already  audible  were  the 
sinister  overtones  that  thereafter  were  to  leave  upon  Calhoun  'a  kind  of 
stain  ...  as  a  public  man.' 

At  best,  nullification  was  a  curious  and  suspect  cause,  and  the  unin- 
formed among  Calhoun's  friends  were  shocked  to  find  that  he  had  not 
'repudiated  it,'  availing  himself  'of  the  occasion  to  make  himself  popular.' 
To  Richard  CrallS  and  Duff  Green,  who  as  yet  had  no  concept  of  how 
terribly  shattered  Calhoun's  political  fortunes  had  already  become,  his 
letter  was  'like  the  shock  produced  by  a  cold  bath.'  'Had  it  not  been 
for  the  cry  of  Nullification,'  asserted  Green,  with  more  confidence  than 
proof,  'Mr.  Calhoun  would  have  been  nominated  by  the  Anti-Masons,' 8T 
a  questionable  honor  indeed. 


Even  in  the  South,  beyond  the  borders  of  South  Carolina,  nullification 
was  an  alien  doctrine*  Typical  was  the  bewildered  Georgia  farmer,  shut 
off  in  the  hills,  with  no  answer  to  his  eager  questions,  and  a  ready  welcome 


234  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

for  the  stranger  whose  horse's  hoofbeats  were  sounding  against  the  hard- 
packed  clay  of  the  mountain  road. 

He  peered  through  the  dusk  at  his  guest.  Was  he  planter  .  .  .  farmer 
.  .  .  cotton  factor,  perhaps?  It  was  hard  to  tell.  His  horse  was  a  'strong 
and  servicable'  looking  animal,  the  equipment  plain,  not  too  ornate  for 
a  poor  man,  or  too  poor  for  the  well-to-do.  As  the  rider  swung  down,  his 
host  examined  him  more  closely.  A  tall  man,  perhaps  fifty  or  fifty-five, 
and  slender,  looking  'capable  of  great  physical  endurance.'  His  smile  was 
'pleasant  and  winning,'  but  everything  in  his  speech  and  manner  'indicated 
the  habit  of  refined  society/ 

Yet,  almost  as  if  by  instinct,  he  made  straight  for  the  end  of  the  porch, 
where  according  to  country  custom  a  basin  of  sun-warmed  water  stood  on 
a  shelf  and  a  towel  hung  on  the  wall.  He  doused  his  face  and  hands,  swept 
the  powdery  red  dust  off  his  clothes;  and  then  stepped  back  to  his  host 
to  'exchange  the  courtesies  of  the  day.' 

The  farmer  opened  the  conversation.  Nullification  was  the  question 
that  dominated  his  thoughts:  Calhoun,  Hayne,  and  the  rest — he  damned 
them  all  with  complete  impartiality.  The  stranger  remained  silent,  obvi- 
ously tired.  'He  evidently  wished  to  avoid  any  controversy.'  But  as  his 
host  launched  into  a  dogmatic  defense  of  majority  rule,  the  guest  re- 
marked that  in  nullification  minorities  claimed  no  power  over  a  majority; 
they  sought  only  to  rule  themselves.  'I  do  not  wish  to  argue  this  question,' 
he  added  with  a  smile.  'I  suspect  that  neither  one  of  us  would  be  likely  to 
convince  the  other.  .  *  .  I  would  prefer  to  talk  with  you  on  more  pleasant 
subjects.' 

But  the  aroused  farmer  had  no  intention  of  losing  the  battle  by  default. 
His  persistence  gained  its  object.  His  guest  roused  himself  at  last.  He  began 
to  talk,  slowly  at  first,  then  launched  into  a  full-scale  defense  of  nul- 
lification complete  with  illustrations,  metaphysical  analysis,  and  the  most 
fervid  persuasion.  Fascinated,  the  Georgian  watched  a  transformation 
grip  the  man  before  him.  Where  only  a  few  minutes  before  he  had  been 
all  ease  and  familiarity,  he  was  now  as  grave  and  earnest  as  a  Senator 
expounding  constitutional  principles  on  the  floor  of  Congress.  Gentleness 
was  replaced  by  command.  The  brilliant  eyes  were  'fixed  with  a  strange 
intensity,'  and  as  the  speaker's  excitement  increased,  'bright  glances' 
shot  out  from  under  his  thick  brows.  Suddenly  the  farmer  recognized  his 
guest.  Only  one  man  in  America  could  look  like  that. 

Swiftly,  he  turned  on  him. 

'Are  you  not  John  C.  Calhoun?' 

'That  is  my  name.' 

'Well,  I  was  sure  of  it.'88 


XV  BLUE  COCKADES  AND  DUELING  PISTOLS  235 


8 

Never  had  Calhoun's  popularity  among  his  own  people  been  so  high. 
Even  in  Pendleton,  where  he  rode  two  or  three  times  a  week  to  pick  up 
his  mail,  crowds  followed  him  from  the  inn  and  the  store  to  the  cramped 
office  of  the  Pendleton  Messenger,  where  he  would  spend  an  hour  or  two 
chatting  with  the  editor  or  reading  proof  of  one  of  his  addresses. 

The  Tort  Hill  Letter'  was  only  one  of  many  that  he  had  to  write  in 
these  months.  Of  the  abuse  hurled  at  him  he  took  little  heed,  but  mis- 
understandings or  interpretations  of  his  doctrine  were  of  extreme  concern 
to  him.  These  he  answered  a  year  later  in  his  'Letter  to  Governor  Hamil- 
ton.7 Point  by  point,  he  challenged  the  contentions  of  his  opponents. 

The  Constitutional  Convention  had  not  nationalized  our  government. 
It  had  only  raised  it  from  below  to  the  level  of  the  state.  Nullification 
was  not  secession.  With  nullification,  the  state  was  still  within  the  Union;  . 
with  secession,  it  was  beyond  control.  Secession  freed  the  state  from  its 
obligations;  nullification  compelled  'the  governing  agent  to  fulfill  its 
obligations.' 

States  could  secede,  by  nullification,  only  from  the  acts  of  other  states, 
not  from  their  agent.  Secession  was  justifiable  only  when  an  entire  group 
of  states  upheld  a  measure  which  defeated  the  'general  welfare,5  for  which 
the  Union  had  been  formed. 

Consolidation,  Calhoun  warned,  could  destroy  the  Union  as  effectually  as 
secession.  The  preservation  of  the  Union  depended  upon  the  equilibrium 
between  the  states  and  the  general  government.  Without  a  check  against 
encroachments  beyond  the  delegated  powers,  the  stronger  would  absorb 
the  weaker.  Such  a  check  was  provided  by  nullification.  Had  not  the 
granting  of  power  in  the  Constitutional  Convention  'required  the  consent 
of  all  the  States/  while  to  withhold  power  the  dissent  of  a  single  state  was 
sufficient?  Had  not  the  Founding  Fathers  specifically  rejected  measures 
to  prohibit  the  states  from  judging  the  extent  of  their  reserved  powers? 

The  original  American  system  of  majority  rule,  he  contended,  had 
meant  the  concurrent,  not  the  absolute,  majority.  Even  at  the  Constitu- 
tional Convention,  not  a  mere  majority  of  the  states,  but  a  majority  of 
the  people  in  each  state  assured  final  modification.  Nevertheless,  he  con- 
ceded, the  practical  operation  of  our  government  'has  been  on  the  prin- 
ciple of  the  absolute  majority.5  A  majority  of  seven  million  could  violate 
the  rights  of  a  minority  of  six  million.  'We  see,5  declared  Calhoun,  'the 
approach  of  the  fatal  hour.7 

His  cause  he  believed  to  be  that  of  'truth  and  justice,  of  union,  liberty, 
and  the  Constitution.5  In  the  last  resort,  only  a  Constitutional  Conven- 
tion of  the  states  could  decide  whether  the  national  government  had 


236  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

abused  its  delegated  power.  First  nullification,  then  a  convention,  these 
were  the  legitimate  remedies  for  oppression.  But  he  who  cwould  prescribe 
.  .  .  disunion  ...  or  the  coercion  of  a  State/  Calhoun  warned,  'will 
receive  the  execration  of  all  future  generations.'  * 


The  trouble  with  'peaceful,  constitutional  nullification'  was  that  so  few 
of  its  adherents  were  inclined  to  methods  that  were  either  peaceful  or 
constitutional.  Calhoun  had,  in  fact,  devised  nullification,  not  only  as  a 
possible  cure-all,  but  as  a  safety-valve  to  divert  the  pent-up  disunionist 
sentiment  in  the  state.  Nevertheless,  the  very  violence  of  the  'fellow- 
travelers5  under  the  Calhoun  banner  was  enough  to  deter  'respectable' 
numbers  of  Carolinians  from  alliance,  despite  their  hatred  of  the  tariff. 

Out-and-out  Unionists  were  few;  yet  they  included  such  men  as 
Thomas  Lowndes,  Benjamin  F.  Perry,  Theodore  Gaillard  Hunt,  Hugh 
Legar6,  Thomas  Grimk6,  William  Drayton,  Daniel  Huger,  James  Louis 
Petigru,  and  Joel  Poinsett.  Aside  from  mere  protestations  against  federal 
'outrages,'  they  had  no  program.  True,  Grimk6  did  suggest  to  the  Legisla- 
ture that  if  the  state  believed  the  tariff  unconstitutional,  it  behooved  it  to 
ask  other  states  to  join  with  South  Carolina  in  an  appeal  for  a  constitu- 
tional amendment.  But  mere  appeals  offered  no  inducement  to  a  people 
keyed  to  the  thought  of  secession.  Oddly  enough,  one  group  of  outright 
secessionists,  headed  by  Langdon  Cheves,  condemned  nullification  as  too 
ineffectual  and  even  too  illogical.  How  could  you  remain  in  the  Union, 
they  argued,  and  refuse  to  obey  the  Union's  laws?  *° 

From  the  national — that  is  to  say,  the  Jacksonian — viewpoint,  nullifica- 
tion would  have  been  suspect  in  any  case.  It  was  an  idea,  a  different  and 
an  abstract  idea,  which  would  have  damned  it  from  the  start,  so  far  as 
Jackson  was  concerned.  Calhoun  could  argue  that  only  secession  would 
destroy  the  Union;  yet  both  he  and  Jackson  knew  perfectly  well  that 
secession  was  the  ultimate  recourse  of  the  nullification  doctrine;  and  that 
even  the  implied  possibility  of  secession  furnished  opportunity  for  count- 
less hot-heads  to  do  as  well  as  to  dare. 

Blue  cockades  for  the  Nullifiers!  A  strip  of  white  cotton  on  the  left 
shoulder  marked  the  Unionists,  who  stolidly  contested  'every  foot  of 
ground.'41  Candles  burned  late  in  Charleston  assembly  rooms.  Tempers 
were  strained.  Nullifiers,  leaving  their  hall  by  way  of  King  Street,  sent  a 
request  to  the  Unionists  that  in  order  to  avoid  collision  they  use  Meeting 
Street,  a  block  below.  The  Unionists  only  broke  down  all  intervening 
fences  in  their  haste  to  reach  King  Street,  and  the  two  groups  met, 
head-on. 

The  Unionists  always  contended  that  it  was  a  Nullifier  who  threw  the 


XV  BLUE  COCKADES   AND  DUELING  PISTOLS  237 

first  stone.  The  stately  Drayton  pled  for  self-control,  but  it  was  too  late. 
The  hot  young  blood  of  Charleston  was  up.  Amid  charges  of  'sneak/ 
'renegade/  and  'traitor,'  Hugers,  Middletons,  and  Pringles  clashed  with 
the  followers  of  Hammond,  Hamilton,  and  Calhoun. 

Petigru  was  struck  on  the  shoulder.  Another  man's  face  was  split  open. 
'The  Union  men,'  declared  a  Nullifier's  lady,  'became  violent.'  *2 

Reverberations  echoed  through  Charleston  drawing  rooms.  No  longer  did 
gentlemen  linger  over  the  'delightful  perfume'  and  the  'beautiful  wreaths' 
of  vapor  which  arose  from  their  gilt  coffee  cups.  No  longer  did  they  con- 
test the  relative  merits  of  Mocha  and  Java,  one  reminiscing  of  Turkey 
and  the  coffee  beans  parching  in  the  tin  plates;  one  remembering  the  Cafe 
des  Milles  Colonnes  and  the  pretty  Parisian  limonadilre,  who  had  passed 
him  his  cup.  Men  now  had  important  matters  to  think  about;  and  those 
soft-spoken  aristocrats  to  whom  politics  had  seemed  only  a  polite  diver- 
sion, never  to  be  brought  into  the  drawing  rooms  with  ladies  present,43 
suddenly  realized  that  politics  had  assumed  the  same  sharp-edged  reality 
known  to  their  Whig  and  Tory  grandfathers. 

Nullifiers  sneered  at  men  who  would  'basely  submit  to  armed  invasion 
and  destruction  of  their  rights.'  Unionists  scornfully  wondered  if  the 
federal  government  would  submit  to  defiance  from  one  small  state.  Once 
Old  Hickory  got  into  action,  predicted  the  Union  leaders,  he  would  make 
'blue  cockades  as  scarce  as  blue  roses  in  South  Carolina.' 

'We  can  die  for  our  rights,'  roared  the  Nullifiers. 

"You  will  die  and  not  get  your  rights,'  the  Unionists  countered.44 

Charleston  had  become  an  armed  camp.  Joel  Poinsett's  breakfasts  were 
mere  partisan  rallies  now.  The  dark  and  dapper  little  Huguenot  with  the 
sharp  eyes  and  bitter  mouth  had  shouldered  the  task  of  holding  the  line 
for  the  Union-bright  or  wrong.  Actually  about  all  that  he  could  do  was 
to  play  the  part  of  a  high-class  spy  for  the  Jackson  Administration.  Hope- 
lessly outnumbered,  devoid  of  arms,  deserted  by  a  near  majority  of  his 
friends,  Poinsett  did  not  lack  courage.  Slowly  he  armed  his  scant  ranks; 
secretly,  by  night,  drilled  them.  To  Jackson  he  passed  on  the  suggestion 
that  'grenades  and  small  rockets  are  excellent  weapons  in  a  street  fight.' 45 
His  activities  were  no  secret — but  not  even  the  most  rabid  of  Nullifiers 
dared  lay  hands  on  him.  Charleston  knew  that  at  the  first  act  of  out- 
right defiance,  a  message  from  Poinsett  would  be  on  its  way  to  Washing- 
ton; the  state  would  be  clapped  under  martial  law  and  Calhoun  and  the 
entire  South  Carolina  Congressional  delegation  arrested  for  treason  and 
turned  over  to  the  courts. 

10 

* 

November  24,  1832  and  the  gathering  of  the  clans  for  the  Nullification 
Convention  at  Columbia!  All  were  there,  'socially  and  politically  the 


238  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 

61ite  of  the  State'— Hayne,  Hamilton,  Calhoun,  Pinckney— and  aU  so 
united  in  purpose  that  many  wondered  why  the  convention  should  sit 
at  all.46 

It  was  a  gaudy  assemblage.  Outside  was  the  tramp  of  footsteps,  the 
rattle  of  bayonets.  Within,  spurs  jingled  and  voices  soared.  Through  the 
throng  moved  Calhoun,  his  face  grave  with  concern.  All  his  pleas  for 
moderation  were  forgotten  in  talk  of  rockets,  bombs,  and  cannon.  If  force 
were  used,  South  Carolina  would  'forthwith  .  .  .  organize  a  separate 
Government,  and  ...  do  all  other  things  which  sovereign  and  inde- 
pendent States  may  of  right  do.'  Sixteen  thousand  'back-countrymen/ 
roared  Robert  Preston,  'with  arms  in  their  hands  and  cockades  in  their 
hats  [are]  ready  to  march  to  our  city  at  a  moment's  warning  to  defend  us.' 

At  length  the  convention  settled  down.  The  Federal  Tariff  Act  was  de- 
clared null  and  void  after  February  1,  unless  the  government  should  see 
fit  to  give  relief  before  that  time.  The  'right'  of  nullification  was  clearly 
affirmed.  Hayne  spoke  the  final  word.  South  Carolina,  he  asserted,  would 
'maintain  its  sovereignty,  or  be  buried  beneath  its  ruins.' 47 

Scarcely  had  the  convention  adjourned  to  reassemble  March  11,  1833, 
before  the  Legislature  hastily  wrote  its  will  into  law.  The  'revolutionary' 
doctrine  of  nullification  was  on  the  books.  But  not  another  state  dared 
go  so  far;  and  as  a  practical  policy,  the  doctrine  would  never  be  revived 
again  until  1842,  when  Massachusetts  would  'nullify'  the  Fugitive  Slave 
Law. 

Jackson's  answer  was  all  but  instantaneous.  His  famed  Proclamation 
arrived  in  Charleston  on  December  10.  To  the  Nullifiers,  it  came  with  the 
force  of  a  physical  blow.  Its  argument,  lucid  and  fine-spun,  struck  straight 
at  the  heart  of  their  doctrines.  'The  Constitution  .  .  .  forms  a  govern- 
ment, not  a  league.  ...  To  say  that  any  State  may  secede  ...  is  to 
say  that  the  United  States  is  not  a  nation.  .  .  .  Disunion  by  armed  forces 
is  treason.' 

'Fellow-citizens  of  my  native  state,'  continued  the  Presidential  appeal, 
'let  me  ...  use  the  influence  that  a  father  would  over  his  children.' 
Would  the  proud  state  of  Carolina  dissolve  'this  happy  Union  .  .  .  these 
fertile  fields  .  .  .  deluge  with  blood  .  .  ,  the  very  name  of  Americans 
.  .  .  discard?'48 

'God  and  Old  Hickory  are  with  us/  49  exulted  the  Unionists,  who  would 
have  settled  for  Old  Hickory  alone.  Throughout  the  country  the  Proclama- 
tion sounded  like  a  bugle  call.  Webster,  Story,  Marshall,  even  John  Quincy 
Adams,  aligned  themselves  on  the  President's  side. 

But  not  South  Carolina.  For  South  Carolina  it  was  too  late.  As  Miss 
Maria  Pinckney  put  it,  To  count  the  cost  has  never  been  characteristic  of 
Carolinians  1'  The  threat  only  'increased  the  number  and  ardor  of  the 
Nullifiers.'  If  offers  of  military  aid  were  pouring  in  on  Jackson,  volunteers 
were  also  flooding  in  upon  Robert  Hayne.  Ready  and  chafing  for  action 


XV  BLUE  COCKADES   AND  DUELING  PISTOLS  239 

were  the  'Mounted  Minute  Men/  flaunting  fresh-polished  boots  and  yel- 
low plumes  and  'palmetto  buttons  of  a  beautiful  pattern.7  ^  A  generation 
of  young  men,  their  veins  throbbing  with  the  blood  their  sons  poured 
out  at  Shiloh,  Chancellorsville,  and  Malvern  Hill,  armed  with  blue  cock- 
ades and  dueling  pistols,  were  ready  to  answer  the  call  of  their  state. 

Charleston  looked  like  a  military  depot.  More  timid  souls  clustered 
before  public  notices,  eagerly  reading  the  advertisements  of  cheap  sugar 
plantations  for  sale  in  Mississippi.  Two  federal  warships  haunted  the 
harbor.  By  December  24,  General  Winfield  Scott  and  a  good-sized  body 
of  troops  were  ordered  South,  forcibly  to  guard  Fort  Sumter  and  the 
customs  house;  and  Calhoun  bitterly  declared  that  for  the  first  time  in 
history  America's  guns  were  pointed  inward  at  her  own  people. 

McDuffie,  uninspired  by  the  Christmas  spirit,  breathed  fire.  There  would 
be  no  violence  'unless  the  driveling  old  dotard*  in  the  White  House  were 
to  'commence  indiscriminate  attack  upon  men,  women,  and  children.'51 
Hayne,  deep  in  Hoyt's  Tactics  and  problems  of  pistols,  sabers,  powder, 
and  ball,  that  same  Hayne  who  only  eight  years  before  had  asserted  that 
'no  threat  of  forcible  resistance  to  the  national  government  should  ever 
be  resorted  to,3  now  bared  his  teeth  in  a  counter-proclamation,  insolent, 
inflammatory.  And  Poinsett  frowned  uneasily  over  Jacksonian  promises 
that  were  something  less  than  conciliatory.  'In  forty  days,'  the  President 
had  written,  'I  can  have  within  the  limits  of  South  Carolina,  fifty  thousand 
men,  and  in  forty  days  more,  another  fifty  thousand.' 52 

Threats  of  war  and  secession  were  heard  on  every  side.  The  people 
were  'ripe  for  war/  declared  one  inflated  report,  'and  the  President 
equally  so.' 6S 

Were  they?  Socially  an  elaborate  pretense  that  all  was  well  still  main- 
tained. Officers  of  the  harbor  forts  had  been  hastily  replaced  with  men 
whose  military  ardors  had  not  been  weakened  by  Southern  charm,  but 
these  were  treated  with  the  same  gracious  courtesy  that  had  seduced  their 
predecessors.  Elderly  Commodore  Elliott  'became  a  great  favorite  with  the 
ladies.'  Nullifiers  and  Unionists  might  ridicule  each  other  in  public;  in 
private,  Hamilton  and  Petigru  met  to  devise  means  of  keeping  the  peace 
between  the  rival  factions.  'The  leaders  of  the  Nullifiers  did  not  desire 
disunion.'54  Even  Jackson  was  holding  himself  in  check  until  nullifica- 
tion had  actually  taken  effect. 

Charlestonians  had  no  access  to  the  files  of  the  President's  private  cor- 
respondence, in  which  he  had  written  Van  Buren  as  early  as  August  that 
Calhoun's  'best  former  friends  say  ...  he  ought  to  be  hung.'55  But  it 
was  no  secret  after  the  letter  to  Hamilton  that  Calhoun  would  resign  from 
the  Vice-Presidency,  and  no  surprise  when  Robert  Hayne  stepped  down 
from  the  Senate  to  make  way  for  a  stronger  champion.  Such  was  the  ex- 
citement that  even  Calhoun,  the  stickler  for  constitutional  legalities, 
wasted  no  time  seeking  a  way  to  submit  his  resignation  to  the  people  of 


240  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

the  United  States  to  whom  he  was,  of  course,  responsible.  Instead,  he  ad- 
dressed a  brief  note  to  Secretary  of  State  Edward  Livingston,  next  in  the 
line  of  Presidential  succession: 

Sir, 

Having  concluded  to  accept  of  a  seat  in  the  United  States  Senate, 
I  herewith  resign  the  office  of  Vice-President  of  the  United  States.5* 

To  this  extraordinary  document,  neither  the  Secretary  of  State  nor  the 
United  States  government  paid  the  least  attention.  It  was  ignored  so  com- 
pletely that  Calhoun  finally  wrote  Livingston  to  see  if  he  had  received  it. 
The  Senate,  too,  disdained  to  recognize  the  withdrawal  of  their  presid- 
ing officer.  Instead,  they  elected  a  President  pro  tempore  and  continued 
business  as  usual. 


11 

Calhoun  was  literally  taking  his  life  into  his  hands  when  he  said  good- 
bye to  Floride  on  December  22,  1832,  and  mounted  the  stage  for  Wash- 
ington. His  sheer  physical  courage,  risking  death  or  dishonor,  broke  down 
Charleston's  last  resistance  to  his  leadership.  Even  his  political  opponents 
could  not  now  withhold  their  personal  admiration. 

At  Columbia  his  friends  gathered  around  him.  They  clung  to  his  hands, 
looked  deep  into  the  brooding  eyes  that  'saw  all  and  revealed  nothing.' 
What  was  he  thinking?  Would  he  have  strength  to  bear  whatever  ordeal 
Jackson  might  devise  for  him?  Admirers  would  have  been  reassured  by 
the  observation  of  his  friend,  Robert  Henry,  that  Calhoun  had  'never 
appeared  in  better  health,7  nor  ccalmer  and  more  self-possessed.'  At  the 
report  that  Jackson  would  have  him  arrested  the  instant  he  crossed  the 
Virginia  border,  Calhoun  merely  smiled. 

'It  will  not  be  done,'  he  said;  'my  opponents  are  too  politic  to  attempt 
it';  but  in  a  sudden  burst  of  intense  feeling  he  added:  'As  far  as  myself 
and  the  cause  are  concerned,  I  should  desire  nothing  better;  it  would  set 
people  a-thinking.' 5T 

His  confidence  was  assumed.  The  physical  ordeal  of  his  journey  was 
second  only  to  the  fears  and  questions  that  tormented  his  brain  during 
those  weary  hours.  What  lay  beyond  him?  Only  rumor  answered — scraps 
and  fragments  of  rumor,  whispers  from  the  waiting  clusters  of  silent  figures, 
words  hastily  broken  off  as  his  tall  figure  strode  through  the  doors  of  the 
wayside  taverns.  He  would  be  arrested.  He  would  never  take  his  seat  as 
Senator.  He  would  be  imprisoned.  South  Carolina  would  be  invaded.  He 
would  be  hanged. 

On  New  Year's  Day,  1833,  he  reached  Raleigh,  North  Carolina.  Crowds 
gathered  beneath  his  window,  aad  devoted  partisans  offered  him  a  public 


XV  BLUE  COCKADES   AND  DUELING  PISTOLS  241 

dinner,  which  he  politely  declined.  There  was  something  of  grandeur  in 
his  bearing,  and  men  spoke  of  Luther  and  the  Diet  of  Worms. 

Virginia  next,  and  a  message  from  his  old  enemy,  John  Randolph  of 
Roanoke^  He  was  resolved  'personally  not  to  assist  in  the  subjugation  of 
South  Carolina,  but  if  she  does  move,  to  make  common  cause  against  the 
usurpations  of  the  Federal  Government.'  No  government  extending  from 
the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific  could  exist,  Randolph  warned.  'There  is  death 
in  the  potion  .  .  .  Patrick  Henry  saw.'  5S 

Randolph's  words  did  little  to  relieve  the  tension  of  Calhoun's  mind. 
For  his  personal  welfare  he  was  too  proud  to  admit  concern;  but  the  un- 
certainties confronting  both  his  state  and  the  South  at  large  were  torturing 
him.  His  conscience  was  clear;  he  knew  that  he  had  restrained  South 
Carolina  and  'restrained  himself;  S9  but  equally  well  he  knew  that  in 
Jackson's  mind  burned  the  obsession  that  Calhoun  was  the  moving  spirit 
of  all  disorder  in  the  South  and  should  be  held  accountable  for  whatever 
might  occur  there. 

That  disorders  would  occur,  Calhoun  had  no  doubt.  It  was  with  terrible 
misgivings  that  he  had  adopted  his  doctrine;  for  what  he  did  fear  was  the 
temper  of  South  Carolina. 

His  carriage  was  approaching  the  Virginia  state  line.  Beyond  was  Wash- 
ington— and  Andrew  Jackson. 


XVI 

Force  and  Counter-Force 


'GENTLEMEN/  declared  the  President  of  the  United  States,  'there  will  be  no 
bloodshed.' 

His  eyes  flashing,  his  seamed  face  taut,  Old  Hickory's  words  crackled 
with  assurance.  But  his  certainty  was  not  shared  by  the  grim,  tired  group 
of  men  clustered  before  his  desk.  South  Carolina  Unionists,  themselves 
ready  'to  rush  to  arms/  they  begged  the  President  to  desist  from  force. 
South  Carolina  had  gone  mad!  What  chance  had  they,,  with  their  scant 
nine  thousand  men,  against  the  mass  fury  of  an  entire  state?  The  meaning 
of  force  was  civil  war.  And  civil  war  meant  defeat. 

Jackson  heard  them  out  in  silence.  Dramatically  he  pointed  a  bony 
finger  at  his  desk.  'I  have  in  that  drawer/  he  said,  'the  tender  of  one 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  volunteers.  .  .  .  We  shall  cross  the  mountains 
into  .  .  .  South  Carolina  with  a  force,  which  joined  by  the  Union  men  of 
that  State,  will  be  so  overwhelming  as  to  render  resistance  hopeless.  We 
will  seize  the  ringleaders,  turn  them  over  to  the  civil  authorities,  and  come 
home.  .  .  .  There  will  be  no  bloodshed.' 1 

His  words  were  something  less  than  soothing.  Even  his  most  ardent  ad- 
mirers were  more  convinced  of  the  zeal  than  of  the  peacefulness  of  the 
President's  intentions.  'They  say/  wrote  vivacious  Fanny  Kemble,  'the 
old  General  is  longing  for  a  fight.' 2 

Fanny  was  in  Washington.  She  was  spending  the  tense  January  days 
'charming  Henry  Clay'  and  making  'John  Marshall  weep/  at  the  'wretched' 
little  Washington  theater,  with  its  'grotesque  mixture  of  misery,  vulgarity, 
stage  finery,  and  real  raggedness.'  s  Americans,  accustomed  only  to  the 
rantings  of  the  dark  and  sunken-eyed  Junius  Booth,  were  not  then  a 
theater-broken  people.  It  was  scarcely  seven  years  since  Kean  had  been 
howled  down  and  struck  with  a  dripping  'twist  of  tobacco/  to  which  in- 
sults a  Baltimore  audience  added  'hisses,  yells,  and  beating  the  doors  and 
benches  with  fists,  canes,  etc.'  *  Now  in  the  'little  box'  of  a  theater,5  its 
pit  'completely  crammed'  with  coatless  men  and  nursing  women,  and  the 
Senatorial  boxes  adorned  with  booted  legs  swinging  over  the  sides,*  Juliet's 
balcony  scene  wove  its  spell  amidst  the  'incessant  spittings'  of  the  audi- 
ence.7 


XVI  FORCE  AND  COUNTER-FORCE  243 

In  Washington  in  that  winter  of  1833,  two  personalities  held  the  public 
attention.  Between  them  there  was  no  connection.  To  each  the  other  was 
unknown.  But  for  sheer  relief  that  January,  the  tense  Washington  citizenry 
took  time  out  from  the  drama  of  Calhoun  for  the  light  comedy  of  Fanny 
Kemble. 

At  Philadelphia  she  had  played  in  a  too-tight  dress  which  threatened 
to  split  from  neck  to  waist  at  every  move,  until,  in  the  'laughing  scene/ 
it  'grinned3  open,  putting  the  lacing  of  her  stays,  'like  so  many  teeth,'  on 
display  to  'the  admiring  gaze  of  the  audience.5  The  house  rocked.  Slowly 
turning  her  hot  face,  Fanny  saw  that  the  eyes  and  plaudits  were  not  for 
her,  but  for  the  tall  and  gracefully  slender  man  with  tow-colored  hair  and 
smiling  mouth,  who  was  advancing  in  a  one-man  procession  down  the 
center  aisle — Mr.  Henry  Clay! 

That  within  a ,  few  weeks  Fanny's  name  would  be  linked  with  that 
'vulgar'  man,  who  had  actually  passed  'before  titled  men  in  England  with 
his  hands  in  his  breeches'  pockets,' 8  would  have  never  entered  Miss  Kern- 
ble's  wildest  imaginings.  Yet  it  was  under  the  protection  of  the  flirtatious 
and  fifty-six-year-old  father  of  twelve  that  Fanny  Kemble  burst  upon 
Washington. 

She  had  'never  felt  anything  like  the  heat  of  the  rooms'  or  heard  'any- 
thing so  strange  as  the  questions  people  ask';  but  the  grim,  erect  Jackson, 
*a  fine  old  well-battered  soldier,' 9  won  her  unstinted  admiration.  The  talk 
swirled  around  her;  'South  Carolina  'in  a  state  of  convulsion,'  Nullifiers 
and  Unionists  battling  in  the  streets,  and,  it  was  said,  'lives  have  been  lost.' 
In  horror,  Jackson  told  of  a  steamer  sailing  out  of  Charleston  Harbor,  her 
flag  upside  down!  'For  this  indignity,'  declared  the  President,  'she  ought 
to  have  been  sunk.' 10 

'So  "Old  Hickory"  means  to  lick  the  refractory  Southerns,'  mused 
Fanny  to  her  journal.  'Why,  they  are  coming  to  a  Civil  War!'  u 


The  playbills  were  flapping  in  the  January  wind,  as  Calhoun's  coach 
rolled  into  Washington.  He  looked  at  them  with  more  than  usual  interest. 
'Mr.  Kemble  and  Miss  Kemble  in  The  Stranger.  .  .  .  Pitt,  50  cents.  Gal- 
lery 25.'  Fanny  Kemble.  He  knew  that  name.  In  Charleston  it  was  already 
the  talk  that  young  Pierce  Butler  of  Sea  Island  was  infatuated  with  her; 
had  given  her  no  respite  since  her  arrival  in  Philadelphia.  Curiosity  tugged 
at  Calhoun.  Despite  his  cares,  he  promised  himself  one  evening's  relaxation 
at  a  Fanny  Kemble  performance. 

The  dreariness  of  a  Washington  January  was  a  counterpart  to  his  mood. 
It  was  as  if  he  had  never  been  away,  as  if  the  sun-gilded  palmettos  of 
the  South  were  a  dream  that  would  fade  from  his  memory.  This  was  the 


244  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

reality,  this  frozen  and  rutted  road  of  which  he  could  scarcely  think  with- 
out aching;  the  smell  and  feel  of  the  leather  coach  curtains  that  brushed 
his  face  at  every  jolt  of  the  stage;  and  the  dry  crackling  of  the  dead  leaves 
still  clinging  to  the  black  oaks  outside.  Idly  his  gaze  swept  the  landscape: 
the  white  Capitol  looming  out  of  a  huddle  of  rickety  shanties;  below,  the 
half-finished,  scattered  red-brick  buildings  of  the  town.  There  was  Gads- 
by's,  a  crazy-quilt  of  galleries  and  staircases,  exits  and  entrances,  and 
finally,  the  new  Jardin  des  Plantes,  full  of  shrubs  now  almost  a  foot  and  a 
half  high.  A  fence  of  wooden  palings  enclosed  last  summer's  lawn  in  front 
of  the  President's  house,  now  a  withered  waste  of  brown  grass.  At  the  rear 
a  stretch  of  unplowed  field  slanted  down  to  the  muddy  Potomac.  No, 
nothing  had  changed;  nothing  but  himself. 

Loyal  followers  had  escorted  him  across  the  Virginia  line  into  Washing- 
ton. Now  only  curious  and  blank-faced  spectators  stared  as  the  coach 
drew  up  before  his  boarding  house  and  he  stiffly  descended.  He  had 
scarcely  reached  his  room  before  he  was  warned  that  he  would  be  arrested, 
and  his  mail,  crammed  with  drawings  of  skulls  and  coffins,  did  little  to  quiet 
his  nerves. 

More  crowds  lined  the  streets  the  next  morning.  It  was  January  4,  1833. 
The  Capitol  building  was  packed.  Curious  friends  and  foes  thronged  the 
Senate  gallery.  Calhoun  entered  the  Chamber,  deathly  pale  but  calm,  with 
an  almost  studied  deliberation  in  his  walk.  Here,  too,  all  was  the  same — all 
the  familiar  little  sounds,  magnified  by  his  own  intensity:  the  scratching 
of  a  quill,  the  thump  of  knuckles  rapping  sand  off  the  wet  ink,  the  dick 
of  a  key  in  a  desk  drawer,  and  the  rustle  of  a  newspaper,  tossed  down  as 
he  passed. 

As  he  sat  down,  several  Southerners  gathered  around  him  to  shake 
hands;  but  it  was  noticed  that  many  former  friends,  one  of  whom  had 
openly  urged  that  he  be  hanged,  held  back;  and  acquaintances  turned  their 
heads  to  avoid  his  gaze.  When  he  strode  forward  to  be  sworn  in,  lips  tight 
and  head  high,  the  curious  gazed  at  each  other  wonderingly,  amazed  at  the 
reverential  and  determined  tone  in  which  this  'traitor'  swore  to  'uphold, 
defend,  and  protect  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States.'  ** 

Senators,  who  had  been  indignant  at  his  'unbridled  audacity'  in  thrust- 
ing himself  into  a  body  he  planned  to  overthrow,  now  softened  somewhat. 
Several  who  had  previously  refused  to  speak  came  forward  and  welcomed 
him  to  the  Senate.  He  returned  their  compliments  with  his  usual  grace, 
and  the  tension  in  the  Chamber  relaxed. 


Washington  seethed  with  rumors.  Lights  burning  late  in  the  White  House 
windows  ...  a  thudding  of  hooves  down  a  street  ...  of  footsteps  dat- 


XVI  FORCE  AND   COUNTER-FORCE  245 

tering  up  the  stairs.  Into  Calhoun's  lodgings  one  midnight  burst  Congress- 
man Robert  Letcher  of  Tennessee,  his  friend  and  the  friend  of  Andrew 
Jackson.  Calhoun  sat  up.  His  servant  draped  a  cloak  around  his  shoulders. 
There  he  sat, c drinking  in  every  word*  as  Letcher's  story  poured  forth.  He 
had  been  at  the  White  House.  He  had  heard  Old  Hickory.  If  one  more  step 
was  taken,  the  President  promised,  'he  would  try  Calhoun  for  treason,  and 
if  convicted,  hang  him  as  high  as  Haman/ 13 

White,  tense,  Calhoun  was  'evidently  disturbed/  But  there  was  nothing 
that  he  could  do.  He  was  as  convinced  of  the  righteousness  of  his  course  as 
his  Scottish  ancestors  had  been,  and  would  have  gone  to  the  stake  for  his 
convictions  as  readily  as  they.  Furthermore,  Andrew  Jackson  was  in  ex- 
actly the  same  frame  of  mind.  He  had  no  more  intention  of  backing  down 
than  his  iron-willed  opponent.  The  two  combatants  were  clashing  head-on. 
Jackson  would  win:  he  had  the  Army;  he  had  the  public  sympathy,  and 
Calhoun  had  a  neck  that  would  break;  but  behind  him  the  Carolinian  had 
a  state  that  could  throw  the  whole  country  into  civil  war. 


'Prejudice  amounted  to  a  passion  against  him/  Not  since  Arnold  and  Burr 
had  there  been  'so  sudden  and  so  terrible  a  fall';  and  in  all  America  there 
was  no  man  whose  every  act  was  watched  with  such  'fearful  curiosity/ 
Nothing,  it  was  believed,  could  restrain  him,  neither  loyalty  nor  patriotism; 
nothing  could  control  his  'mad  ambition/ 14 

Calhoun's  very  look  fulfilled  the  popular  idea  of  a  conspirator:  the  dark 
face,  'lines  .  .  .  deeply  gullied  by  intense  thought;  a  manner  at  once 
emphatic  and  hesitant;  determined,  yet  cautious/  But  even  Jackson's  ad- 
mirers conceded  that  he  was  'every  inch  a  MAN/  M  His  physical  courage 
was  unquestioned.  Nothing  could  shake  him — bitter  personal  hatred,  the 
abusive  press,  even  threats  of  bodily  'outrage/  Senators  marveled  at  his 
'noble  bearing,'  as,  unmoved  and  unafraid,  he  walked  about  the  streets  of 
the  capital. 

For  the  man  himself  sympathy  ran  high.  Those  who  knew  him,  his  lofti- 
ness of  character,  his  'scorn  of  meanness  in  man  or  thing,'  could  not  with- 
hold their  personal  admiration.  'Mr.  Calhoun,'  wrote  Mrs.  Smith,  'will  his 
high  soarings  end  in  disappointment  and  humiliation  or  be  drowned  in 
blood?  ...  He  is  one  of  the  noblest  and  most  generous  spirits  I  have  ever 
met.  ...  I  am  certain  he  is  deceived  himself,  and  believes  he  is  now  fulfill- 
ing the  duty  of  a  true  patriot/ ie 

'Those  who  hated  most  .  .  .  pardoned  those  who  felt,'  noted  a  contem- 
porary observer.  There  was  something  of  'moral  sublimity'  in  this  tragedy 
of  fallen  greatness;  and  there  were  times  when  the  warmth  of  feeling  for 
Calhoun  as  a  man  overrode  public  indignation.  'Opinion,'  declared  March, 


246  JOHN  C.  CALHOUN 

often  ^hesitated  between  hatred  and  admiration/  adding  to  the  'interest 
and  anxiety'  felt  for  him.  Typical  was  the  confession  of  a  Jackson  news- 
paperman, who  entered  the  Senate  'deeply  prejudiced  against  him.  I  left 
it  filled  with  the  highest  admiration  for  his  talents  and  patriotism.7 1T 


But  Calhoun  asked  no  sympathy.  And  what  he  thought,  no  one  knew.  Few 
of  his  letters  of  this  period  have  been  preserved.  He  may  have  been  too 
busy  or  too  tired  to  write,  or  may  even  have  ordered  his  correspondence 
destroyed.  He  did  dash  off  a  brief,  cheering  note  to  his  brother-in-law, 
James,  assuring  him  that  all  was  'going  well.' 18  The  Southern  people  should 
be  given  no  pretext  for  force.  Yet  his  real  agitation  was  plainly  revealed  on 
January  16,  1833,  the  day  that  Jackson's  Message  arrived,  calling  for 
powder  and  arms  to  enforce  order  in  South  Carolina. 

Calhoun  sprang  to  his  feet.  His  words  were  bitter.  In  youth,  he  told  the 
Senate,  he  had  'cherished  a  deep  and  enthusiastic  admiration  of  this 
Union.'  He  had  looked  'with  rapture'  on  the  beautiful  structure  of  our 
federal  system,  but  knew  always  that  in  the  last  resort  the  body  that 
delegated  the  power  could  judge  of  the  power.  And  now,  for  merely  daring 
to  assert  the  state's  constitutional  rights,  'we  are  threatened  to  have  our 
throats  cut,  and  those  of  our  wives  and  children.5  He  stopped,  exhausted 
and  shaken.  'No,  I  go  too  far.  I  did  not  intend  to  use  language  so  strong.' 

The  correspondent  for  the  Baltimore  Patriot  looked  at  him  in  amaze- 
ment. 'Mr.  Calhoun  spoke  under  a  degree  of  excitement  never  before  wit- 
nessed in  a  parliamentary  body.  His  whole  frame  was  agitated.' 

Could  this  be  the  cool,  the  poised,  the  mild-mannered  Vice-President 
of  the  United  States,  whom  the  press  corps  had  watched  for  so  long?  'It  is 
seldom/  commented  the  Baltimore  reporter,  'that  a  man  of  Mr.  Calhoun's 
intellectual  power  thus  permits  himself  to  be  unmanned  in  public  .  .  . 
the  will  of  such  a  man  usually  gets  command  of  his  passions.'  ** 

A  Senator  hastily  assured  Calhoun  that  the  government  would  appeal  to 
South  Carolina's  sense  of  justice  and  patriotism.  'I  am  sorry  that  South 
Carolina  cannot  appeal  to  the  sense  of  justice  of  the  General  Government/ 
retorted  Calhoun,  and  was  sharply  called  to  order  by  several  Senators.20 
A  moment  later,  still  struggling  for  composure,  he  arose  again  and  'begged 
pardon  for  the  warmth  with  which  he  had  expressed  himself  .  .  .  feeling 
as  he  did,  he  could  not  have  spoken  otherwise.' 21  From  the  White  House, 
Jackson  commented:  'Calhoun  let  off  a  little  of  his  ire  today,  but  was  so 
agitated  and  confused  that  he  made  quite  a  failure.' tt 


XVI  FORCE  AND  COUNTER-FORCE  247 


It  was  sheer  agony  Calhoun  suffered  during  those  weeks.  For  a  man  of  his 
make-up — proud,  sensitive,  high-strung,  only  a  few  years  back  a  popular 
hero,  now  little  more  than  a  pariah,  all  his  dreams  and  hopes  blotted  out — 
his  position  must  have  been  intolerable.  He,  the  brilliant  young  Cabinet 
officer,  the  confidant  of  Monroe  and  Jefferson,  now  to  have  old  friends 
shrink  back  as  he  passed,  to  have  his  name  bandied  as  rebel  and  traitor, 
his  career  ended,  his  health  giving  way,  all  hopes  for  national  glory  at  an 
end — this  was  his  sorry  lot  during  those  long  weeks.  And  not  even  his 
personal  fears  were  uppermost  in  his  thoughts.  He  had  left  Floride  only 
slightly  improved  from  'dangerous  illness';  M  he  had  delayed  his  de- 
parture for  days  to  watch  at  her  bedside,  and  concern  for  her  was  weigh- 
ing upon  him.  But  most  of  all,  the  terrible  responsibility  for  the  outcome 
of  his  doctrine  hung  like  a  deadweight  on  his  mind. 


'Thank  God  for  old  Jackson/  exulted  the  Washington  Globe?*  Rumors  of 
possible  compromise  from  the  headquarters  of  Henry  Clay  did  nothing 
to  divert  the  White  House  intentions.  In  response  to  Jackson's  demands 
for  action,  the  Force  Bill,  described  by  Calhoun  as  ca  virtual  repeal  of  the 
Constitution/  was  reported  out  of  the  Senate  Judiciary  Committee,  Jan- 
uary 21,  1833.  Calhoun's  friend,  Duff  Green,  the  Senate  printer,  published 
it  in  full,  impudently  bordering  his  columns  in  black. 

On  January  22,  Calhoun  again  took  the  floor.  His  answers  to  Jackson's 
call  for  powder  and  shot  was  in  three  resolutions  which  he  presented,  de- 
claring: (1)  that  the  states  were  parties  to  a  constitutional  compact;  (2) 
that  they  had  delegated  specified  powers  to  the  federal  agent;  and  (3)  that 
the  states  were  legal  judges  of  what  they  had  delegated.  With  logic  so  fine- 
spun that  the  loss  of  a  single  word  would  destroy  the  meaning,  Calhoun 
told  the  Senate  that  if  our  system  was  founded  on  the  'social  compact/ 
Jackson's  arguments  were  correct ;  but  if  we  were  a  'Union  of  States/  the 
Force  BUI  was  not  only  'wholly  repugnant'  to  the  'genius'  of  our  system, 
but  'destructive  of  its  very  existence.' 

His  anger  mounted.  The  Force  Bill  was  an  'outrage.'  It  was  'the  creature 
warring  against  the  creator.'  Nor  was  it  restricted  to  South  Carolina,  but 
if  'there  be  guilt,  South  Carolina  alone  is  guilty.  Why  .  .  .  make  the  bill 
applicable  to  all  States?  Why  make  it  the  law  of  the  land?' 

Not  the  fate  of  South  Carolina  alone  was  at  stake,  but  the  whole 
American  system  of  government.  If  the  Force  Bill  be  enacted,  be  it  further 


248  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

enacted,  was  his  cry,  'that  the  Constitution  is  hereby  repealed.  ...  It 
will  .  .  .  forever  put  down  our  beautiful  federal  system  and  rear  on  its 
ruins  consolidated  government.' 25 

Throughout,  keenly  as  he  felt,  he  maintained  his  self-control.  His  terse 
sentences  were  of  'beautiful  structure,'  and  although  he  spoke  only  a  few 
minutes,  he  proved  himself  a  foe  against  whom  the  whole  talent  of  the 
Administration  forces  would  have  to  be  thrown.26  Now  it  was  Jackson's 
turn  to  humble  himself,  and  to  beg  Daniel  Webster,  with  whom  he  had 
not  even  been  on  speaking  terms  for  more  than  a  year,  to  lead  the  fight 
for  the  government. 

Webster  held  back.  He  would  not  speak  until  the  South  Carolinian  had 
more  fully  revealed  himself.  Days  dragged  by  until  Friday,  the  fifteenth 
of  February,  when  at  last  Calhoun  arose.  History  would  record  that  he 
spoke  'On  the  Revenue  Collection  Bill  (commonly  called  the  Force  Bill).' 
Actually  he  was  speaking  in  defense  of  himself,  his  state  and  his  cause. 

He  set  the  stage  dramatically  for  the  great  occasion.  Pushing  some  chairs 
down  to  both  ends  of  a  long  desk  which  stood  before  the  lobby  rail,  he 
enclosed  himself  in  a  sort  of  cage  where  he  could  pace  up  and  down  as 
he  spoke.  Close  observers  saw  how  rapidly  he  had  aged  in  the  past  few 
months:  the  chiseled  bone  structure  of  his  face  was  clearly  visible;  the 
dark  lustrous  eyes  were  sunken.  His  short-clipped  hair,  brushed  back  from 
a  broad  forehead,  was  streaked  with  gray.  To  some,  the  gaunt,  stooped 
figure  seemed  'the  arch  traitor  .  .  .  like  Satan  in  Paradise';  27  to  others, 
the  'austere  patriot,'  with  his  back  against  the  wall,  battling  fiercely  in 
defense  of  violated  liberties.  To  all,  despite  his  tension  and  defiance,  he 
looked  at  least  the  complete  orator. 

But  he  did  not  feel  so.  Not  only  had  he  to  defend  himself  before  an 
audience,  hostile  and  embittered;  but  to  re-evaluate  the  whole  principle  of 
federal  government.  Intellectually,  he  knew  himself  to  be  fitted  for  the  task, 
but  of  his  oratory  he  was  less  certain;  for  he  was  facing,  both  on  the  floor 
and  in  the  galleries,  critics  spoiled  by  the  eloquence  of  Webster  and  Clay, 
and  wholly  ready  to  award  their  verdict  to  the  most  compelling  speaker. 
And  as  he  stood  silent  a  moment  in  the  cold,  clear  light  from  the  falling 
snow  outside,  he  wondered  if  he  would  be  able  to  speak  at  all.  He  was  not 
ill,  as  Washington  rumor  had  hopefully  proclaimed,  but  days  of  grueling 
strain  had  drained  his  strength.  He  was  tired,  so  desperately  tired,  that, 
as  he  frankly  told  the  Senate,  he  doubted  that  his  physical  strength  would 
be  sufficient  to  see  him  through.28 

His  very  admission  compelled  sympathy.  And  his  first  words,  disarm- 
gentle,  were  a  pleasant  surprise.  He  was  speaking  in  sorrow  rather 
than  anger,  with  a  perception  of  the  basic  cause  of  the  conflict  which 
eluded  him  in  later  years,  as  he  deplored  'the  decay  of  that  brotherly 
feeling  which  once  existed  between  these  States  ...  to  which  we  are 
indebted  for  our  beautiful  federal  system,  and  by  the  continuance  of  which 


XVI  FORCE  AND  COUNTER-FORCE  249 

alone  it  can  be  preserved.'  But,  he  asked,  had  the  general  government  the 
'right  to  impose  burdens  on  .  .  .  one  portion  of  the  country,  not  with  a 
view  to  revenue,  but  to  benefit  another?' 

Passionately  he  denied  the  'false  statement'  that  South  Carolina's  object 
was  'to  exempt  herself  from  her  share  of  the  public  burdens*  ...  If  the 
charge  were  true — if  the  state  were  capable  of  being  actuated  by  such  low 
and  unworthy  motives,  mother  as  I  consider  her,  I  would  not  stand  up  on 
this  floor  to  vindicate  her  conduct.'  No,  'a  deep  constitutional  question' 
was  at  stake.  Nothing  could  be  more  erroneous  than  the  charge  that  South 
Carolina  was  attempting  to  nullify  the  Constitution  and  laws  of  the 
United  States.  'Her  object  is  not  to  resist  laws  made  in  pursuance  of  the 
Constitution,  but  those  made  without  its  authority.'  She  did  not  even  claim 
'the  right  of  judging  of  the  delegated  powers.'  w  but  only  of  the  reserved, 
and  only  when  the  Congress  encroached  upon  her  own  powers  and  liberties. 

Ingeniously  he  had  transposed  the  entire  relationship  of  accuser  and 
accused.  None  denied  that  he  had  done  so  'in  innocence.'  'It  was  evident 
to  all,'  declared  a  Jacksonian  supporter,  'that  he  sought  to  produce  belief 
from  what  he  himself  believed.  He  could  not  change  facts,  but  he  could 
interpret  them.'  *°  He  was  not  an  impostor,  but  a  fanatic. 

There  were  moments  when  he  gave  way  to  his  feelings,  when  he  startled 
the  Senate  with  his  allusion  to  'the  mischievous  influence  over  the  Presi- 
dent,' and  to  Jackson  himself  as  the  man  'false  to  South  Carolina's  hopes 
.  .  .  now  the  most  powerful  instrument'  to  put  down  both  the  Southern 
people  and  their  cause.  Men  looked  at  each  other  in  astonishment.  His 
bitterness,  his  resentment,  his  overwrought  intensity  were  startling  to  the 
most  casual  observer.  Hitherto  none  in  public  life  had  more  scorned  abuse 
or  indulgence  in  personalities.81 

He  strongly  defended  the  tariff  of  1816  as  a  revenue  measure,  despite 
its  few  concessions  to  the  protective  policy.  'I  would  be  willing  to  take  that 
act  today  as  the  basis  of  a  permanent  adjustment.'  The  American  system 
— and  he  meant  'nothing  offensive  to  any  Senator' — meant  only  the  de- 
struction of  a  balanced  and  harmonious  Union.  Its  real  meaning  was  that 
same  'system  of  plunder  which  the  strongest  interest  has  ever  waged,  and 
will  ever  wage  against  the  weaker.  ...  It  is  against  this  dangerous  and 
growing  disease'  that  South  Carolina  'has  acted.' 

Chamber  and  galleries  were  hushed.  Daniel  Webster's  head  was  bent 
over  a  paper;  he  was  busily  taking  notes. 

Not  alone  did  the  Force  Bill  declare  war  against  South  Carolina,  Cal- 
houn  continued.  'No.  It  decrees  a  massacre  of  her  citizens.'  It  puts  'at  the 
disposal  of  the  President  the  army  and  navy,  and  .  .  .  entire  militia  .  .  . 
it  enables  him  to  subject  every  man  in  the  United  States  ...  to  martial 
law  .  .  .  and  under  the  penalty  of  court-martial  to  compel  him  to  imbrue 
his  hand  in  his  brother's  blood.' 

'It  has  been  said  to  be  a  measure  of  peace!  Yes,  such  peace  as  the  wolf 


250  JOHN  C.  CALHOUN 

gives  to  the  lamb  ...  as  Russia  gives  to  Poland,  or  death  to  its  vic- 
tim. ...  It  is  to  South  Carolina  a  question  of  self-preservation  .  .  . 
should  this  bill  pass  ...  it  will  be  resisted  at  every  hazard  .  .  .  even 
that  of  death.  .  .  .  Death  is  not  the  greatest  calamity;  there  are  others 
.  .  .  more  terrible  to  the  free  and  brave  ...  the  loss  of  liberty  and 
honor  .  .  .  thousands  of  her  brave  sons  ...  are  prepared  to  lay  down 
their  lives  in  defence  of  the  State,  and  the  great  principles  of  constitu- 
tional liberty  for  which  she  is  contending.  God  forbid  that  this  should  ever 
become  necessary!  It  never  can  be,  unless  this  Government  is  resolved 
to  bring  the  question  to  extremity,  when  her  gallant  sons  will  stand  pre- 
pared to  perform  the  last  duty — to  die  nobly.' 

The  very  warmest  oratory  ever  witnessed,'  marveled  the  correspondent 
of  the  Charleston  Courier,  'will  give  ...  but  a  faint  idea  of  the  manner 
in  which  words  seemed  to  come  from  Mr.  Calhoun's  inmost  soul,  and  to 
agitate  him  from  head  to  foot  in  their  delivery.' 82  Few  could  appreciate 
the  intricacies  of  his  argument.  His  voice  was  hoarse,  his  delivery  harsh 
and  abrupt.  But  few  could  remain  unmoved  by  the  spectacle  of  the  man 
himself,  swept  by  his  own  intense  feelings,  with  all  the  emotions  that  he 
strove  to  conceal  mirrored  in  the  dark,  shadowed  eyes  that  in  moments  of 
excitement  or  anger  'flashed  with  the  fire  of  a  soul  that  burned  within 
him.'  * 

A  few  moments  later,  brows  were  wrinkling  over  one  of  his  subtleties. 
Was  ours  a  federal  Union,  a  Union  of  states,  as  opposed  to  individuals? 
Our  very  language  afforded  the  proof.  The  terms,  'union,'  'federal,'  'united,' 
were  never  applied  to  an  association  of  individuals.  'Who  ever  heard  of 
the  United  State  of  New  York?'  Nor  was  our  federal  system  built  on 
divided  sovereignty,  for  sovereignty  was  of  its  very  nature  indivisible.  It 
was  a  'gross  error'  to  confound  the  exercise  of  sovereignty  with  sovereignty 
itself,  or  the  delegation  of  the  powers  with  the  surrender  of  them.  To 
surrender  a  portion  'is  to  annihilate  the  whole.' 

Vehemently  he  denied  that  he  was  'metaphysical.  .  .  .  The  power  of 
analysis  ...  is  the  highest  attribute  of  the  human  mind  .  .  .  the  power 
which  raises  men  above  .  .  .  inferior  animals.  It  is  this  power  which  has 
raised  the  astronomer  from  ...  a  mere  gazer  at  the  stars  to  the  high 
intellectual  eminence  of  a  Newton  or  a  Laplace.  .  .  .  And  shall  this  high 
power  ...  be  forever  prohibited,  tinder  a  senseless  cry  of  metaphysics, 
from  being  applied  to  ...  political  science  and  legislation?'  They  are 

*  Calhoun's  emotional  power  as  an  orator— his  'logic  set  on  fire'— has  been  underes- 
timated. 'No  one  can  hear  him  without  feeling,'  declared  one  observer.  No  one  could 
see  him  'without  being  moved.'  At  least  two  contemporaries  insisted  that  Calhoun 
was  a  'far  more  ardent*  speaker  than  Webster,  with  'all  the  feeling  and  fire  ...  which 
the  New  Englander  lacked.'  (See  Grand,  Aristocracy  in  America,  II,  218,  286,  and 
281;  Perry,  Reminiscences  of  Public  Men,  p.  64;  Magoon,  Uving  Orators,  p.  235; 
and  Jenkins,  John  C.  Calhoun,  p.  450.) 


XVI  FORCE  AND   COUNTER-FORCE  251 

'subject  to  laws  as  fixed  as  matter  itself  ...  the  time  will  come  when 
politics  and  legislation  will  be  considered  as  much  a  science  as  astronomy 
and  chemistry/ 

He  swung  back  to  the  subject.  The  Force  Bill,  they  said,  must  be  passed 
' because  the  law  must  be  enforced!  The  law  must  be  enforced  1  The  im- 
perial edict  must  be  executed! '  To  preserve  this  Union  by  force!  'Does  any 
man  in  his  senses  believe  .  .  .  this  beautiful  structure  „  .  .  can  be  pre- 
served by  force?  .  .  .  Force  may  indeed  hold  the  parts  together,  but  such 
union  would  be  the  bond  between  master  and  slave.  ...  It  is  madness  to 
suppose  that  the  Union  can  be  preserved  by  force.' 

In  the  midst  of  'the  tempest  and  whirlwind  of  his  oratory,9  a  voice 
screamed  from  the  gallery:  'Mr.  President,  I  am  being  squeezed  to  death!' 
The  almost  unbearable  tension  snapped,  and  the  Chamber  rocked  with 
laughter.  Only  Calhoun,  clamped  in  the  vise  of  Ms  own  intensity,  stood 
unmoved  and  rigid,  but  his  spell  was  broken.  Shortly  afterward,  'complain- 
ing of  a  slight  indisposition,'  he  gave  way  to  Daniel  Webster's  motion  to 
adjourn.83 

Continuing  the  next  day,  Calhoun  called  for  a  society  organized  with 
reference  to  its  economic  diversities,  giving  'labor,  capital,  and  production,' 
each  the  right  of  self -protection.  His  words  were  prophetic;  well  did  he 
realize  that  the  political  lines  of  the  states  did  not  correspond  to  the 
economic  groupings  of  the  population.  'Let  it  never  be  forgotten,'  he 
added,  'that  power  can  only  be  opposed  by  power  ...  on  this  theory 
stands  our  .  -  .  federal  system.' 

The  cynicism  of  this  last  statement,  voiced  by  the  'first  great  realist  of 
the  nineteenth  century,'  a  disillusioned  idealist,  who  had  learned  that 
reason  does  not  prevail,  shocked  Daniel  Webster.  It  affronted  the  'whole 
latent  idealism'  of  an  America,  whose  thought  was  based  on  French  theories 
of  the  'innate  goodness  of  man.'  It  would  be  a  hundred  years  before 
America  would  realize  that  'power  can  only  be  opposed  by  power,'  and 
that  man,  far  from  being  inherently  good,  was  as  selfish  as  Calhoun  be- 
lieved him  to  be.  Paradoxically,  if  Calhoun's  premises  were,  at  the  time 
he  uttered  them,  fifty  years  in  the  past,  his  doctrine  was  a  hundred  years 
to  the  future.  Jackson  did  not  know  how  to  devise  measures  which  would 
free  the  states  and  sections  from  oppression  and  yet  leave  enough  authority 
in  Washington  for  a  government.  His  fear  of  outlying  districts  being  sub- 
ordinated to  financial  centralism  was  as  real  as  Calhoun's,  but  he  had  no 
plan  to  avert  the  evil.  Calhoun  had  ideas  on  both  these  questions,  but  was 
prevented  from  experimenting.  Both  Calhoun  and  Jackson  were  struggling 
to  fuse  the  old  ideals  of  the  Constitution  with  the  new  realities  of  an  ex- 
panding, complex  civilization.  But  only  Calhoun  was  facing  the  question, 
not  of  what  the  country  wanted  at  the  moment,  but  what  it  would  require 
in  the  future. 

The  basic  argument,  the  South  Carolinian  concluded,  is  ^whether  ours 


252  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

is  a  federal  or  consolidated  government  ...  the  controversy  is  one-  be- 
tween power  and  liberty.'  He  had  spoken  little  more  than  an  hour,  but 
was  worn  out  from  his  exertion  of  the  day  before;  and  'either  from  the 
intensity  of  his  feelings,  the  want  of  physical  strength,  or  a  deficiency  of 
vocal  power/  was  'unfit  for  a  long  .  .  *  sustained  effort.'  ** 

Comments  ranged  from  a  Southerner's  enthusiastic  declaration  that  the 
speech  was  not  'surpassed  by  any  recorded  in  ancient  or  modern  times' 
to  the  scoff  of  the  Charleston  Courier  that  he  had  'ruined  his  politics  by 
liis  philosophy;  and  merged  the  practical  statesman  in  the  Utopian 
dreamer.'  Those  who  read  the  text  considered  the  speech  reasoned  and 
calm,  although  one  critic  wondered  if  'logic  can  demonstrate  any  moral 
proposition.'  An  eyewitness  declared:  'His  gestures  and  countenance  ex- 
pressed things  unutterable,  while  his  language  was  guarded.' M 


8 

History  has  dealt  more  kindly  with  Calhoun's  speech  than  did  his  con- 
temporaries. For  undoubtedly  he  marred  the  strength  of  his  argument  by 
outbreaks  of  passion.  'A  total  failure'  was  the  summary  of  the  Richmond 
Enquirer.  'He  is  too  much  excited  to  do  even  justice  to  himself.' 8e  Ac- 
counts generally  agreed  that  he  had  failed,  with  the  Telegraph  pointing 
out  that  his  mind  was  'so  much  worried.' 87  To  Webster  even  the  con- 
stitutional argument  seemed  inconsiderable.  'There  is  nothing  to  it/  he 
asserted.  To  a  friend  he  wrote:  'You  are  quite  right  about  his  present 
condition.  He  cannot,  I  am  convinced,  make  a  coherent  .  .  .  argumenta- 
tive speech.'  ** 

Which  was  exactly  what  Calhoun  wanted  him  to  believe.  Not  even  the 
strength  of  his  emotions  could  weaken  the  Carolinian's  'powers  of  reason- 
ing ...  almost  miraculous/  or  the  subtlety  of  his  keen  mind.  Webster 
had  taken  the  floor  the  instant  Calhoun  had  sat  down,  and  with  equal 
haste  had  fallen  completely  into  the  trap  set  for  him.  Ignoring  the  speech 
itself,  as  Calhoun  had  hoped  that  he  would  do,  he  took  for  his  text  the 
three  resolutions  which  Calhoun  had  presented  on  January  22,  To  cheering 
galleries  the  New  Englander  proceeded  to  denounce  nullification  as  the 
practical  end  of  the  Republic  and  of  liberty;  to  assert  that  the  Constitu- 
tion was  established  by  the  people  and  not  the  states;  that  it  acted  upon 
individuals  and  not  the  states.  From  the  White  House  Jackson  exulted: 
'Many  people  believe  Calhoun  to  be  demented.  .  .  .  Webster  handled  him 
like  a  child.'89 

Calhoun  refused  to  be  smoked  out.  On  February  24,  the  Force  Bill  came 
to  a  vote.  Dramatically  Calhoun  arose.  Haughty  and  defiant,  he  stalked 
out  of  the  Chamber,  followed  by  the  entire  Southern  delegation.  Only 
John  Tyler,  who  had  long  since  opposed  the  tariff  as  'an  appeal  to  the 


XVI  FORCE  AND   COUNTER-FORCE  253 

numerical  majority  of  the  North  to  grow  rich  at  the  expense  of  the  South/ 
remained  to  cast  his  Way.'  A  few  moments  earlier  Clay  had  hurried  out 
of  the  Chamber  on  the  plea  of  'bad  air.3  *° 


Two  days  later,  Calhoun,  with  a  gentle  reproof  to  Webster  for  the  'personal 
character'  of  his  late  speech,  opened  his  reply  with  the  statement,  'I  never 
had  any  inclination  to  gladiatorial  exhibitions  .  .  .  and  if  I  now  had,  I 
certainly  would  not  indulge  them  on  so  solemn  a  question.'  With  a  dramatic 
gesture  he  lifted  a  few  notes  that  he  had  taken  on  Webster's  speech.  He 
apologized  for  'the  poverty  of  his  language.'  He  was  sorry  that  his  term  'con- 
stitutional compact'  seemed  obscure.  But  he  had  high  authority,  'no  less 
than  the  Senator  himself.'  41  And  he  read  the  phrase  from  the  famous  Reply 
to  Hayne. 

Word  by  word,  line  by  line,  he  tore  at  Webster's  logic.  'Hundreds  who 
could  not  or  would  not  be  convinced  by  his  reasoning'  could  not  withhold 
their  admiration  of  the  'extreme  mobility  of  his  mind.'  If  the  states  had 
'agreed  to  participate  in  each  other's  sovereignty,'  as  Webster  claimed,  how 
could  they  agree  but  by  compact?  Yet  now  the  New  Englander  said  there 
was  no  compact. 

If  a  single  state  could  ordain  and  establish  a  Constitution,  why  not  a 
number  of  states?  The  states  could  not  touch  the  Constitution?  What 
about  the  power  of  three-fourths  of  the  states  to  alter,  or  even  abolish,  the 
Constitution?  Power  had  not  been  delegated  to  the  people.  The  people, 
acting  through  their  states,  had  delegated  their  power  to  the  government. 

Near  Calhoun  sat  a  long,  skeleton-like  figure,  with  eyes  as  dark  and 
brilliant  as  his  own.  The  dying  John  Randolph,  convinced  that  his  fellow 
Southerner's  arguments  were  unanswerable,  had  no  fear  of  Webster.  A  hat 
on  the  table  obscured  his  view.  'Take  away  that  hat,'  he  said.  'I  want  to 
see  Webster  die,  muscle  by  muscle.' 42 

Calhoun  conceded  that  he  was  no  constitutional  lawyer.  But  he  wished 
to  remind  the  gentleman  from  Massachusetts  that  an  actual  proposal  to 
give  the  Supreme  Court  power  to  determine  disputes  between  the  states 
and  federal  government  had  been  rejected  in  the  Constitutional  Conven- 
tion! He  read  from  Virginia's  ratification  of  the  Constitution,  with  its  un- 
equivocal statement  that  when  delegated  powers  were  perverted  against 
the  state,  they  could  be  resumed.  And  suddenly  he  read  from  the  Massachu- 
setts ratification  of  'the  compact.' 

'Ours  has  every  attribute  which  belongs  to  a  federative  system/  Calhoun 
concluded.  'It  is  founded  on  compact;  it  is  formed  by  sovereign  com- 
munities, and  is  binding  between  them.  .  .  .  The  sovereignty  is  in  the  parts 
and  not  the  whole.' 4S  Nullification  was  constitutional.  Through  suffrage,  op- 


254  JOHN  C.  CAUEIOUN 

pression  by  rulers  was  prevented;  through  nullification,  oppression  by 
majorities. 

Who  had  won?  Randolph  thought  he  knew.  Webster  is  dead/  he 
crowed.  'I  saw  him  dying  an  hour  ago.' "  To  the  galleries  the  victor  was 
the  one  whom  each  individual  had  happened  to  hear  first;  to  the  country 
the  winner  was  he  with  whose  doctrines  each  section  or  group  already 
agreed.  Webster's  reasoning  was  legal,  taken  from  the  words  of  the  Con- 
stitution; Calhoun's,  despite  his  denials,  was  metaphysical,  arguing  from 
what  in  the  nature  of  things  a  government  formed  for  certain  defined 
purposes  should  be.  Between  the  two  concepts  was  no  meeting  ground.  It 
was  like  trying  to  prove  the  principles  of  chemistry  through  physics.  That 
Calhoun's  logic  was  watertight,  few  denied.  Even  Webster  conceded  the 
strength  of  his  position,  granted  that  the  Constitution  was  a  compact, 
which  Webster  still  insisted  it  was  not.  Trapped  by  the  details  of  Cal- 
houn's argument,  he  had  been  forced  to  reduce  his  own  contentions  to  the 
level  of  common-sense,  demanding  whether  the  American  people  wanted 
a  government  like  other  governments  or  a  mere  league. 

If  victory  belongs,  not  to  him  who  has  proved  his  case,  but  to  him 
whose  proofs  are  accepted,  the  honors  went  to  Webster.  Calhoun  had 
shown  what  the  government  had  been,  and  what  he  thought  it  should  be; 
but  Webster  had  demonstrated  what  the  numerical  majority  thought  and 
wanted  it  to  be.  His  was  the  spirit  of  the  times  and  of  the  future. 


10 

Calhoun  might  well  claim  victory  on  the  field  of  logic.  But  logic  was  not 
the  field  Andrew  Jackson  had  chosen.  The  'Bloody  Bill'  was  law;  troops 
stood  ready  to  march  into  South  Carolina  to  wrest  the  federal  revenues 
from  their  coffers.  And  if  South  Carolina  resisted,  what  then  of  John  C. 
Calhoun? 

Clayton  of  Delaware  studied  Calhoun's  drawn,  haggard  face.  He  ap- 
proached Henry  Clay.  'These  Carolinians  have  been  acting  very  badly, 
but  they  are  good  fellows,  and  it  would  be  a  pity  to  let  old  Jackson  hang 
them.7  he  said.45 

Mr.  Clay  considered.  He  did  not  think  the  South  Carolinians  'good 
fellows/  and  he  was  not  at  all  sure  that  it  might  not  mean  the  salvation 
of  the  country  if  Jackson  did  hang  them.  But  civil  war — Henry  Clay  did 
not  want  a  war.  Furthermore,  pending  in  the  House  was  a  bill  which  tore 
his  beloved  American  System  to  pieces.  It  might  pass.  But  it  would  dis- 
rupt business.  Nor  was  there  much  likelihood  that  it  would  be  accepted 
by  the  Calhounites  with  their  present  view  of  the  whole  tariff  question, 
based  not  on  economics,  but  on  principle.  They  were  in  no  mood  to  accept 
Administration  concessions  on  the  one  hand  and  coercion  on  the  other, 


XVI  FORCE  AND   COUNTER-FORCE  255 

But  concessions  from  Henry  Clay,  from  the  representative  of  the  manu- 
facturing interests — that  would  be  another  matter.  Remnants  of  the  Ameri- 
can System  might  even  be  salvaged.  Calhoun  could  argue  the  values  of 
'peaceful,  constitutional  nullification7  until  his  voice  stuck  in  his  throat; 
but  whether  South  Carolina  seceded  or  not,  war  would  come  at  her  first 
act  of  civil  disobedience.  This  Henry  Clay  knew.  He  knew  Andrew  Jack- 
son, and  he  knew  the  depths  of  that  'superstitious  attachment  to  the  Union, 
which  marked  every  act'  of  Calhoun Js  career.  So  Clay  put  out  feelers.  Cal- 
houn responded.  'He  who  loves  the  Union  must  desire  to  see  this  agitating 
question  brought  to  a  termination/  he  said.46 

Secretly,  at  night,  the  two  met.  The  interviews  were  'frosty.'  Desperate, 
the  proud  South  Carolinian  reluctantly  accepted  terms  meted  out  to  him. 
Meanwhile,  Clay  went  his  way,  making  public  promises  to  one  group, 
private  pledges  to  another.  On  February  13,  1833,  he  introduced  his  own 
modified  tariff  bill.  'I  have  ambition/  he  declared,  'the  ambition  of  being 
the  humble  instrument  in  the  hands  of  Providence  to  reconcile  a  divided 
people/  As  the  'humble  instrument*  sat  down,  Calhoun  arose  and  briefly 
announced  that  he  would  support  the  compromise.  The  galleries  thundered 
with  applause.47 

Northern  public  opinion  was  indignant.  In  Boston  the  self-termed 
'friends  of  the  Union' — that  is  to  say,  'all  persons  ...  in  favor  of  sus- 
taining the  labor  of  the  Mechanic,  Farmer,  Manufacturer,  Merchant,  and 
Shipowner' — met  at  Faneuil  Hall  to  voice  their  opposition  'to  any  legisla- 
tion' upon  the  tariff  whatsoever  by  Congress,  'Any  honorable  conciliation' 
they  would  accept,  but  'the  protecting  system'  was  'too  closely  interwoven 
with  all  the  interests  of  New  England'  to  permit  their  consent  to  its 
abandonment.  The  Clay-Calhoun  compromise,  said  the  Boston  Courier, 
was  'a  palpable  attempt  to  abandon  the  system  of  protection.5  ** 

From  the  very  way  in  which  Mr.  Clay  was  greeted  by  Mr.  Calhoun,  re- 
ported the  correspondent  for  the  Philadelphia  Sentinel,  'no  man  can  doubt 
that  the  whole  American  System  ...  is  to  be  abandoned.' 49  The  Nan- 
tucket  Courier  mourned  the  'dissolution  and  ruin'  °°  of  the  Republic.  If 
South  Carolina  would  not  abandon  her  course,  neither  should  New  Eng- 
land. 

The  very  'folly  and  cupidity  of  the  friends  of  the  American  System' 
furnished  the  Nullifiers  with  a  'powerful  engine'  for  'inflaming  the  minds 
of  their  followers/  the  New  York  Evening  Post  reminded  its  readers.  South 
Carolina  had  done  'nothing  more,  except  that  she  is  doing  it  with  more 
rashness,  than  some  other  states  have  done.7  ^  And  in  Richmond,  'Father 
Ritchie/  still  bitter  at  that  'mule  remedy'  of  nullification,  which  is  'neither 
one  thing,  nor  t'other/  defended  the  South  Carolinian  against  charges  'of 
destroying  the  manufacturers.'  Mr.  Calhoun  would  'never  agree  to  the 
passage  of  any  bill  which  would  destroy  the  capital  and  skill  in  the  North- 
ern States/ 52 


256  JOHN  C.  CAZHOUN 

Although  Calhoun  agreed  to  Clay's  compromise,  he  rebelled  at  a  dause 
on  home  valuation,  and  planned  to  let  it  pass  without  his  vote,  so  that 
his  conscience  would  permit  him  to  attack  it  later.  Unfortunately,  John 
Middleton  Clayton  of  Delaware  immediately  saw  through  the  scheme,  and 
announced  that  unless  Calhoun  voted  personally  for  every  clause,  offensive 
or  otherwise,  he  would  move  to  lay  the  whole  measure  on  the  table. 

This  dose  was  too  much  even  for  Henry  Clay.  He  joined  a  group  of 
Calhoun's  supporters  behind  the  Vice-President's  chair  and  begged  that 
their  chief  might  be  spared  this  humiliation.  Clayton  was  inflexible.  'If 
they  cannot  vote  for  a  bill  to  save  their  necks  from  a  halter,  their  necks 
may  stretch/ 5S  he  said. 

'Sweating  blood/  Calhoun  spent  an  entire  night  walking  the  floor  of  his 
room,  fighting  out  the  battle  between  his  pride  and  his  duty.  The  next 
morning,  as  Clayton  boasted  'I  made  him  do  it,7  the  proud  Carolinian 
stood  before  the  Senate,  announced  that  he  was  'acting  under  protest/ 
and  voted  for  every  section  of  the  compromise  bill. 

The  Administration  press  chortled  with  glee.  'A  single  night/  proclaimed 
Frank  Blair  in  the  Globe,  'was  sufficient  to  change  Mr.  Calhoun's  constitu- 
tional scruples.' M 


11 

Congress  adjourned  March  3,  1833.  That  same  day  Calhoun  started  his 
seven-hundred-mile  journey  South.  His  haste  was  feverish.  His  one  hope 
was  to  reach  Columbia  before  the  eleventh,  when  the  Nullification  Con- 
vention was  to  reassemble — before  blood  was  shed. 

For  South  Carolina  had  gone  beyond  him.  Force  would  be  met  by  fire. 
South  Carolina  was  in  no  mood  to  accept  the  crumbs  from  Henry  Clay's 
table,  certainly  not  under  the  very  gun-barrels  of  Andrew  Jackson!  If  the 
principle  of  protection  was  wrong,  why  recognize  it  at  all?  South  Carolina 
was  armed.  South  Carolina  was  ready.  Mr.  Clay's  tariff  could  be  nullified 
as  easily  as  the  Tariff  of  Abominations  had  been. 

The  weather  was  raw  and  cold.  Calhoun  had  hoped  to  take  the  packet, 
despite  the  qualms  natural  to  one  'who  suffers  from  sea-sickness  as  much 
as  I  do.'  But  the  Potomac  was  frozen.  Chafing  at  the  delay,  he  abandoned 
the  stage  at  Alexandria,  and  climbed  into  one  of  the  open  mail  carts  which 
traveled  night  and  day  over  the  half-broken  trails. 

To  the  legendary  'ten  evils  of  stage-coaches/  the  mail  carts  could  add 
a  dozen  more.  There  were  no  springs.  There  were  no  coverings.  There  were 
no  seats,  and  Calhoun,  huddled  in  his  waterlogged  otter-skin  greatcoat, 
had  the  choice  of  sitting  on  his  luggage  or  on  the  mail  bags,  cramping  his 
long  legs  into  the  spaces  between.  Thus  he  traveled  for  eight  days  and 
nights.  Stop-overs  were  only  for  fresh  drivers  and  horses;  and  hasty 


XVI  FORCE  AND   COUNTER-FORCE  257 

gulpings  of  the  'abominably  bad  .  .  .  brown  bread  and  common  doings/  or 
'white  bread  and  chicken  fixings/  eaten  in  silence  and  without  complaint, 
either  at  the  groups  of  dirty  black  and  bluish-white  children  who  glided  in 
to  stare  'as  if  you  were  a  wild  beast,'  or  at  the  unsavory  fact  that  the 
'lumps  of  paste*  called  wheatcakes,  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  'lumps  of 
clay.'55 

Such  a  trip  for  even  a  young  and  robust  man  would  have  been  almost 
unbearable.  What  it  must  have  done  to  Calhoun  is  beyond  conception.  He 
had  taken  the  precaution,  now  habitual  with  him,  of  placing  a  sheet  of 
paper  beneath  his  underwear  to  protect  his  chest,  but  it  is  not  surprising 
that  much  of  his  later  ill  health  dates  from  this  period. 

Now,  aside  from  possible  self -congratulation  that  the  flat  Southern  ter- 
rain precluded  the  necessity  of  easing  the  horses  at  every  high  hill  by 
getting  out  and  walking,56  Calhoun  was  beyond  any  concern  for  his  physical 
well-being.  Through  swamp  water  and  pine  forest,  across  makeshift  bridges 
of  jolting  logs,  the  cart  rumbled.  The  pine  torches  hissed  through  the  wet 
nights,  the  rain  and  wind  beat  down  upon  driver  and  passenger,  with  Cal- 
houn too  absorbed  in  his  thoughts  even  to  be  aware  of  their  effect  upon 
him. 

Not  even  when  the  cart  swayed  into  Columbia  did  he  rest.  He  had 
missed  the  convention's  opening  by  twenty-four  hours,  and  now  made 
straight  for  the  hall,  startling  the  assembly  as  he  walked  in  with  his  mud- 
splashed  clothes  and  white,  drawn  face. 

He  was  too  tired  to  speak,  but  a  seat  was  found  for  him  on  the  floor. 
He  had  not  come  too  soon.  The  mood  of  the  convention  was  ugly.  On  the 
rostrum  stood  Robert  Barnwell  Rhett,  voice  taunting,  nostrils  flared  in 
scorn.  Openly  he  shouted  for  a  Southern  Confederacy.  Openly  he  defied 
any  delegate  there  to  say  that  he  loved  the  Union. 

Up  rose  a  single,  old,  one-legged  veteran  of  the  Revolution,  Daniel 
Huger.  'It  has  been  the  pride  of  my  life,'  his  voice  quavered  across  the 
assembly,  'to  submit  to  the  laws  of  my  country.' 5T 

Through  the  hall  Calhoun's  tall  figure  moved  restlessly  from  delegate  to 
delegate.  He  pled  for  patience-.  He  begged  South  Carolina  not  to  assume 
the  responsibility  before  history,  before  the  world,  for  disrupting  the  dream 
of  a  united  America.  It  was  no  easy  task,  preaching  the  gospel  of  peace  to  a 
people  booted  and  spurred  for  war.  He  had  indeed  instructed  them  in  their 
'rights.'  They  had  rejected  the  'bribe'  of  a  compromise  tariff  the  year 
before.  Many  were  furious  at  what  they  deemed  his  concessions  to  Clay; 
and  only  a  few  moments  prior  to  his  arrival  had  put  through  a  resolution 
of  censure  against  him  by  a  majority  of  three  votes. 

Amidst  loud  cries  of  'peacable  secession'  and  pledges  of  allegiance  to 
the  state  and  obedience  only  to  the  national  government,  Calhoun  won 
his  way.  By  sheer  personal  persuasion  the  weary  man  convinced  the  dele- 
gates that  South  Carolina's  practical  objectives  had  been  won.  The  state 


258  JOHN   C,    CALHOUN 

had  nullified.  The  tariff  had  been  repealed.  To  go  farther  would  'mean 
a  war  in  the  South.'  And  he  'did  not  wish  it.'  ** 

Overnight  the  mood  of  the  convention  changed.  On  the  fourteenth  the 
delegates  repealed  their  nullification  of  the  tariff  of  1828.  And  with  war 
averted,  even  the  Unionists  swung  over  to  Calhoun's  side.  His  leadership 
was  restricted,  of  course,  to  his  own  state  borders.  He  was  utterly  without 
a  party,  his  career  tainted  by  the  very  name  of  nullification.  He  cared 
little.  Despite  the  immediate  victory,  he  still  had  the  courage  to  point 
out  the  magnitude  of  the  defeat  that  had  been  suffered.  It  had  certainly 
been  no  small  triumph  for  a  single  state  to  wrest  from  the  federal  govern- 
ment the  relinquishment  of  its  tariff  policy,  but  the  price  of  nullification 
had  been  the  triumph  of  coercion.  Nullification  of  the  Force  Bill  itself, 
just  before  the  convention's  adjournment,  was  no  more  than  a  gesture. 
The  'Bloody  Bill'  remained  on  the  books,  a  precedent  for  future  eventu- 
alities; and  to  all  practical  purposes,  the  national  government  had  proved 
its  superiority  to  the  states  that  created  it. 

The  effects  of  the  struggle  were  to  be  felt  through  the  lives  of  the  entire 
generation  then  living.  It  is  true  that  the  West  and  South  were  already 
divided  on  the  slavery  question.  Yet  their  community  of  interest  on  the 
tariff  was  one,  and  as  late  as  1861  there  were  many  who  believed  that 
a  Free  Trade  Act  alone  would  be  enough  to  draw  the  West  into  the  orbit 
of  the  Southern  Confederacy.  But  they  were  wrong.  The  tariff  fight  be- 
tween Jackson  and  Calhoun  had  so  divided  the  agrarian  states  that  the 
West  and  South  could  not  stand  united  before  the  test  of  civil  war.59 

Back  at  Fort  Hill,  Calhoun  could  at  last  relax  and  seek  restoration  of 
his  depleted  energies.  Submerged  in  the  gloom  of  reaction,  he  reflected 
with  bitterness  on  the  fruits  of  his  'victory.'  The  Democratic  Party,  he 
declared,  was  carrying  the  principles  of  consolidation  farther  than  Hamil- 
ton had  even  dreamed.  'The  sperit  of  liberty  is  dead  in  the  North.'  A 
consolidated,  nationalistic  government  had  been  legally  established  under 
'the  bloody  act.  ...  It  will  never  be  enforced  hi  this  State.  .  .  .  Caro- 
lina is  resolved  to  live  only  under  the  Constitution.  There  shall  be  at  least 
one  free  State.'  60 

'The  struggle,  far  from  being  over,'  he  wrote,  'has  only  just  com- 
menced.' 61 


xvn 

Calhoun  at 


'I  HAVE  HAD  BUT  LITTLE  SPIRIT  to  write  to  my  friends,'  Calhoun  con- 
fessed to  Littleton  Tazewell  early  in  1836.  His  view  of  the  future  was 
'hopeless';  he  could  see  only  the  eventual  'overthrow  of  our  system.'  All 
was  coming  to  a  head;  and  'the  vice,  folly,  and  corruption  of  this  the 
most  vicious,  mad  .  .  .  administration  that  ever  disgraced  the  govern- 
ment is  about  to  recoil  on  the  country  with  fearful  disaster.'  * 

Never,  before  or  later,  did  Calhoun  reveal  such  bitterness.  He  was  so 
despondent  that  to  him  every  move  of  the  Chief  Executive  seemed  'fatal' 
to  the  country,  and  throughout  Jackson's  second  term  this  mood  of  depres- 
sion hung  over  him.  Undoubtedly  his  personal  frustrations  tainted  his 
thinking:  as  John  Quincy  Adams,  studying  him  across  the  dinner  table, 
put  it:  'Calhoun  looks  like  a  man  racked  with  furious  passions  and  stung 
with  disappointed  ambition,  as  undoubtedly  he  is«2  Fifty-four  now,  at 
the  prime  of  his  intellectual  powers,  Calhoun  was  goaded  with  the  con- 
viction that  his  hopes  both  for  himself  and  the  country  were  doomed  to 
extinction.  Peace,  health,  and  rest  had  become  almost  impossible  to  him.8 

Yet  his  despair  was  not  for  himself  alone,  and  history  would  prove  how 
genuine  was  the  basis  for  his  fears.  In  the  tragedy  of  his  baffled  ambi- 
tions lay  baffled  also  infinite  possibilities  for  the  working  of  American 
democracy. 

The  concentration  of  power  in  the  hands  of  the  Executive  he  recognized 
as  one  of  the  most  disturbing  aspects  of  the  Force  Bill.  Nor  was  this  bill 
more  than  one  example  of  Jackson's  'general  tendency.'  Calhoun  clearly 
saw  that  Executive  authority  strong  enough  to  curb  the  business  interest 
could,  in  other  hands,  be  united  with  this  same  interest,  to  govern  the  na- 
tion. If  Executive  authority  were  recognized  as  superior  to  state  authority, 
even  for  the  states'  benefit,  that  same  power  could  be  used  at  another 
time  to  work  the  states'  subordination.  None  knew  better  than  he  how 
powerful  were  the  precedents  that  the  Jackson  Administration  had  al- 
ready laid  down.  'No  one/  Calhoun  wrote  David  Hoffman,  'can  look  with 
greater  alarm  than  I  do,  on  the  attempt  of  the  Chief  Magistrate  to  ap- 
point his  successor*  (Martin  Van  Buren),  'Should  it  succeed  *  .  .  resting 
...  on  the  avowed  subserviency  of  the  nominee  to  the  will  of  the  Presi- 


260  JOHN  C.  CALHOUN 

dent  ...  it  would  afford  conclusive  proof  of  the  consumption  of  Exe- 
cutive usurpation  over  the  Government,  and  the  Constitution.  .  .  .  Execu- 
tive .  .  .  power  will  forever  silence  the  popular  voice.' 4  In  practice,  if  not 
in  theory,  by  popular  wish,  if  not  by  historical  authority,  under  Andrew 
Jackson  the  federated  Republic  was  becoming  a  unified  nation.  This  was 
what  Calhoun  saw,  and  what  he  feared. 


To  Andrew  Jackson,  Calhoun  was  just  one  more  rival,  a  hated  one,  \o 
be  sure,  but  definitely  in  second  place.  Jackson  had  a  more  potent  enemy 
now,  and  he  could  fight  the  enemy  and  the  issue  with  equal  intensity. 

The  man  was  Nicholas  Biddle.  Democrats  of  later  generations  might 
damn  him  as  un-American,  but  his  philosophy  was  as  old  as  America 
herself.  Like  most  of  his  fellow  mortals,  Mr.  Biddle  was  no  conscious 
villain.  He  was  merely  imbued  with  the  conviction  that  what  was  good 
for  Mr.  Biddle  was,  of  necessity,  good  for  the  country. 

Many  battles  in  the  coming-of-age  of  America  had  already  been  won. 
America  had  surrendered  to  the  principle  of  majority  rule;  the  only  ques- 
tion was,  who  should  control  the  majority?  The  battle  of  the  money 
power  still  roared  on.  It  was  not  now  a  question  of  freedom  against  a 
concentration  of  power,  but  of  public  power  against  private  power,  of  the 
masses  against  the  classes.  Would  the  people  choose  their  governors  tin- 
der the  guidance  of  political  potentates  or  of  business  ones?  This  was  the 
issue:  Jackson  and  Biddle  the  contenders. 

No  two  men  could  have  been  more  unlike.  And  no  one  man  could  have 
so  embodied  the  united  causes  of  money  and  aristocracy  as  the  dark, 
classic-featured,  one-time  child  prodigy,  Nicholas  Biddle  of  Philadelphia. 
When  young  Andrew  Jackson  lay  half -dead  in  a  South  Carolina  prison- 
pesthouse,  thirteen-year-old  Biddle  had  just  completed  the  prescribed 
courses  at  the  University  of  Pennsylvania.  At  eighteen  he  was  in  France, 
personally  handling  the  more  delicate  details  of  the  Louisiana  Purchase.  A 
few  more  years  and  he  was  back  in  America,  editing  a  highly  literary 
magazine  and  writing  a  history  of  the  Lewis  and  Clark  expedition,  while 
he  built  up  the  biggest  banking  monopoly  America  had  ever  seen.  Bril- 
liant in  intellect,  elegant  in  dress,  fascinating  in  manner,  it  was  this 
figure,  with  the  face  of  a  poet  and  the  brain  of  a  financial  wizard,  who 
in  the  cAge  of  Jackson'  exerted  even  more  personal  power  than  the  Presi- 
dent. For  through  its  branches  and  agencies,  'the  Bank  of  the  United 
States  ruled  the  commerce,  the  industry,  and  the  husbandry  of  a  nation; 
and  Biddle  ruled  the  bank.' 5 

Jackson  knew  it.  There  was  much  Andrew  Jackson  did  not  know  about 
the  workings  of  minds  like  Biddle's,  or  the  intricacies  of  high  finance;  yet 


XVII  CALHOUN   AT  WAR  261 

of  the  Bank's  tendency  to  make  the  rich  'richer  by  Act  of  Congress,'  he 
was  fully  aware.  Furthermore,  he  was  convinced  that  the  Bank  had  failed 
in  its  'great  end  of  establishing  a  uniform  and  sou^  currency7 — a  view 
that  would  have  been  heartily  seconded  by  Calhoun  had  he  been  able  to 
agree  with  Jackson  on  anything  at  all. 

Oddly  enough,  despite  his  'distrust  of  accumulated  capital,5  Jackson 
had  not  at  first  pressed  the  Bank  issue.  There  were  strong  Bank  men  in 
his  party — even  in  his  own  Cabinet.  'I  do  not  dislike  your  Bank  any 
more  than  all  Banks/  6  Jackson  told  Biddle.  It  was  Daniel  Webster  and 
Henry  Clay  in  their  hot  haste  for  an  issue  who  almost  'literally  black- 
mailed' Biddle  into  asking  Congress  for  the  Bank's  recharter  four  years 
in  advance  of  the  expiration  date  in  1836 — thus  making  the  Bank  the 
political  football  of  the  campaign  of  532.7 

Jackson  took  up  the  challenge.  If  the  Bank  was  to  be  an  issue,  his  Veto 
Message — a  hot  blast  against  the  'rich  and  powerful'  who  'bend  the  acts 
of  Government  to  their  selfish  purposes' 8 — spoke  for  the  laborer  against 
the  capitalist.  The  'Recharter5  was  lost  and  the  battle  was  on,  with  'the 
Monster  of  Chestnut  street' — as  Jackson  termed  the  Bank — fighting  the 
people  with  their  own  public  funds.  Credit  barriers  were  undamped; 
loans  to  editors  and  political  haranguers  were  dispensed  with  prodigal 
liberality.  Presses  were  rented  and  bought.  Pro-Bank  speeches  by  Webster, 
Clay,  Calhoun,  and  many  others  were  reprinted  by  the  thousands,  and 
thoroughly  enjoyed  by  the  bankers,  businessmen,  and  politicians,  who 
had  acclaimed  them  in  the  first  place.  Factories  closed  down,  and  it  was 
said  they  would  reopen  only  upon  'the  election  of  Henry  Clay.5  Unem- 
ployment, depression,  disaster — all  was  forecast  as  the  price  of  the  re- 
election of  Andrew  Jackson. 

All  without  avail. 

Old  Hickory's  mind  was  made  up.  As  the  election  returns  poured  in, 
he  acted  to  bring  matters  to  a  head.  His  conviction  was  complete  that 
if  federal  funds  remained  at  the  disposal  of  Biddle,  he  would  use  them  to 
'buy  up  all  Congress5  and  override  the  Presidential  veto  in  time  for  the 
Bank's  recharter  in  1836.9  And  Biddle  would  supply  the  evidence  in  his 
own  handwriting  a  year  later  when  the  state  of  Louisiana  was  offered  two 
million  dollars  in  depression  relief  as  the  price  for  eleven  votes  in  the 
House  of  Representatives!  Clay  was  already  on  the  Bank  payroll  as  an 
advisory  counsel.  Webster  was  freely  supplied  with  loans;  and  by  the 
spring  of  1841  would  still  owe  the  Bank  $111,166.10  Furthermore,  so 
many  individual  Congressmen  were  already  fettered  to  the  Bank's  strong- 
boxes that  the  purchase  of  only  a  few  more  votes  would  have  been 
necessary. 

Jackson's  plan  was  simple:  to  remove  the  federal  funds  from  the  Bank. 
When  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  Louis  McLane  declined  to  comply,  he 
was  transferred  to  the  State  Department.  When  the  newly  appointed 


262  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

Secretary,  William  John  Duane,  bluntly  refused  to  carry  out  orders,  he 
found  himself  removed  along  with  the  deposits.  That  same  day — Sep- 
tember 23,  1832 — Roger  Taney  had  stepped  into  the  office.  Seventy-two 
hours  later,  federal  funds  had  ceased  their  flow  into  the  Bank  of  the 
United  States,  with  existing  deposits  already  on  their  way  to  repositories 
in  the  various  states.  So  far  as  Andrew  Jackson  was  concerned,  the  inci- 
dent was  closed. 

So  far  as  Nicholas  Biddle  was  concerned,  it  had  scarcely  opened.  En- 
suing scenes  in  the  drama  were  played  out  on  two  sets:  a  tall,  stately 
room  in  a  Greek  temple  on  Philadelphia's  Chestnut  Street  and  the  tobacco- 
scented,  untidy,  upstairs  study  of  the  'President's  House,'  where  Andrew 
Jackson  sat  waiting. 

Biddle  leveled  his  guns.  All  that  Jackson  had  feared  he  might  do,  he 
did;  and  the  country  was  swept  by  a  panic,  as  it  seemed  to  Jackson  'en- 
tirely artificial,'  and  almost  entirely  manufactured  by  that  'hydra  of  cor- 
ruption,' u  the  Bank. 

The  truth  was  less  simple.  Biddle  was  a  businessman,  and  like  other 
businessmen  deemed  his  first  duty  to  be  toward  his  corporation.  With 
the  federal  funds  gone,  curtailment  of  loans  was  absolutely  essential  both 
'to  salvage  his  own  institution'  and  to  safeguard  the  interests  of  the  de- 
positors. 

Yet,  if  it  was  Jackson's  haste  that  precipitated  the  panic  of  1833, 
Nicholas  Biddle  was  no  man  to  by-pass  the  opportunity  to  carry  the  fight 
through.  The  contractions  were  justified;  but  the  reduced  discounts  and 
the  continually  restricted  drawings — all  within  the  few  months  from 
August,  1833,  to  September,  1834 — were  too  much.  Stocks  tumbled;  busi- 
ness houses  crashed;  unemployed  laborers  walked  the  streets,  cursing  the 
names  of  both  Biddle  and  Jackson. 

Biddle  stood  firm.  With  organized  capital  behind  him,  with  Jackson's 
wildcat  finance  as  a  palpable  excuse,  Biddle  could  bring  down  such  wreck- 
age upon  the  heads  of  the  unsuspecting  populace  as  would  make  them 
howl  for  mercy — or  for  the  recharter  of  the  Bank  of  the  United  States, 
'which  alone  had  always  kept  its  notes  at  par  with  specie  and  above  those 
of  all  other  banks.'  No  relief  could  be  offered;  for  'Nothing  but  the 
evidence  of  suffering  abroad  will  produce  any  effect.' 12 

Boston  suffered  the  first  bombardments.  While  merchants  pled  for  a 
million  dollars  to  pay  duties  on  cargoes  that  were  already  at  the  wharves, 
the  Bank  suddenly  canceled  all  discounts  and  demanded  the  return  of 
many  of  its  balances  in  the  state  banks.  In  the  six  months  from  August, 
1833,  through  January,  1834,  the  Bank  squeezed  over  eighteen  million 
dollars  from  a  gasping  public,  one-third  of  its  entire  discounts.  Small  men, 
small  industries,  were  exterminated,  but  the  pressure  also  bore  heavily 
upon  even  the  wealthiest  establishments.  Biddle's  own  satellites  were  hit, 
but  they  still  had  money  left  to  buy  the  support  of  the  wavering,  to  pay 


XVII  CALHOUN   AT   WAR  263 

the  stage  fare  to  Washington,  and  in  delegation  after  delegation  to  climb 
the  stairs  to  the  White  House  'den.' 

There,  white  hair  bristling  high  above  the  heap  of  letters,  petitions,  and 
assassination  threats  which  littered  his  desk,  tobacco-stained  teeth  clamped 
upon  the  stem  of  his  corncob  pipe,  his  thin  face  gullied  with  lines  of  pain, 
the  old  man  heard  his  tormentors  out. 

'Go  home,  gentlemen,  and  tell  the  Bank  of  the  United  States  to  relieve 
the  country  by  increasing  its  business.7  To  others:  'You  are  a  den  of  vipers 
and  thieves.  .  .  .  Should  I  let  you  go  on,  you  will  ruin  forty  thousand 
families.  ...  I  have  determined  to  rout  you  out,  and,  by  the  Eternal !' 
— hard  fist  crashing  into  a  nest  of  flying  papers — 'I  will  rout  you  out!' 
To  all,  one  command  was  the  same:  'Go  to  Nicholas  Biddle!  The  people! 
The  people,  sir,  are  with  me!9 ** 


The  people  were.  Congress  was  another  matter.  Indignant  at  the  Presi- 
dential slurs  upon  its  honor,  terrified  by  a  mighty  mass  of  petitions  for 
relief  and  recharter,  Congress  rose  up  that  fall,  snarling.  Hatred  of  Jack- 
son had  become  sheer  obsession. 

The  removal  of  the  deposits  furnished  the  ammunition  for  the  Con- 
gressional guns.  The  'right'  of  the  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  to  discon- 
tinue placing  public  funds  hi  the  Bank  was  written  into  the  Bank's  charter, 
provided  'satisfactory  reasons'  were  given  for  doing  so.  But  neither  Jack- 
son nor  Taney  in  their  united  wisdom  could  produce  reasons  satisfactory 
to  Congress  in  its  present  mood. 

The  nullification  issue  postponed  the  bombardment  until  the  session  of 
1834.  Then  Henry  Clay  opened  the  festivities.  Mr.  Clay's  efforts  were 
thorough.  It  took  him  the  better  part  of  three  days  and  twelve  pages  of 
small  type  in  Nile?  Register  to  express  his  fears  of  encroaching  Executive 
power  and  his  hatred  of  Andrew  Jackson.  The  removal  of  the  deposits 
was  'an  open,  palpable,  and  daring  usurpation.  .  .  .  We  are  in  the  midst 
of  a  revolution,'  he  shouted,  'rapidly  tending  towards  .  .  .  the  concentra- 
tion of  all  power  in  the  hands  of  one  man.'  Soon  our  government  will  be 
'transformed  into  an  elective  monarchy.  .  .  .  Thank  God,  we  are  yet  free.' 

His  voice  sank  low.  'People  .  .  .  speak  ...  in  the  cautious  whispers 
of  trembling  slaves.'  Soon  'we  shall  die — ignobly  die,  base,  mean,  and 
abject  ...  the  scorn  and  contempt  of  mankind,  unpitied,  unwept, 
unmourned.'  Kendall  noted  that  this  pathetic  climax  was  greeted  Vith  re- 
peated cheers  and  clapping  of  hands,'  the  feminine  portion  of  the  audi- 
ence, at  least,  supplying  the  tears  which  Mr.  Clay  feared  would  be  lack- 
ing at  his  country's  demise.14 

Three  days  of  retaliation  were  consumed  by  Benton,  who  sneered  lustily 
at  Clay's  call  to  'drive  the  Goths  from  the  temple.'  Then  came  Calhoun. 


264  JOHN    C.    CALHOUN 

Unlike  his  more  energetic  predecessors,  he  devoted  only  an  hour  and  a 
half  to  his  remarks;  yet  on  the  test  of  statesmanship,  he  failed  as  com- 
pletely as  Jackson  had  done  with  the  tariff  measure. 

For  there  is  no  doubt  that  John  C.  Calhoun  was  as  much  opposed  to 
the  National  Bank  as  ever  Jackson  could  be.  His  early  ties  to  the  Bank 
could  be  snapped  without  fear  of  retaliation,  for  they  were  not  financial 
but  political.  He  knew  that  the  National  Bank,  which  he  proudly  ad- 
mitted he  had  fathered,  had  not  grown  up  as  he  had  hoped  that  it  would. 
He  knew  that  the  Bank  was,  in  part,  responsible  for  the  very  conditions 
that  it  had  been  devised  to  prevent.  He  could  oppose  it  now  whole- 
heartedly. He  could  and  did  say,  We  must  curb  the  Banking  system,  or  it 
will  certainly  ruin  the  country.' 

But  what  he  could  not  do  was  join  forces  with  Andrew  Jackson.  This 
would  have  been  the  statesmanlike  course,  but  it  would  have  been  too 
much  for  Calhoun's  very  human  nature  to  endure.  His  feelings  had 
blinded  him  to  the  fundamentals  of  a  great  issue,  and  the  personal  hatred 
between  him  and  Jackson  again  confused  and  divided  the  Southern  people, 
with  disastrous  results. 

Undoubtedly  Calhoun  was  honest  in  thinking  that  'an  union  of  the 
banking  system  and  the  Executive'  would  be  'fatal'  to  our  country.  He 
was  right  in  his  belief  that  'an  entire  divorce  between  the  government  and 
the  Banking  system7  was  the  only  cure,  but  he  had  no  solutions  to  offer. 
His  efforts  were  destructive,  not  constructive. 

He  boasted  that  he  was  in  the  'front  rank'  of  those  who,  once  de- 
nounced as  'traitors  and  disunionists,'  were  now  'manfully  .resisting  the 
advances  of  despotic  power.'  The  officials  who  had  secreted  the  deposits 
were  'public  plunderers  under  the  silence  of  midnight.'  It  had  been  a  'wan- 
ton exercise  of  power'  on  the  part  of  the  Executive.  'It  is  not  even  pre- 
tended,' he  declared,  'that  the  public  deposits  were  in  danger.' 

clf  the  question  merely  involved  the  existance  of  the  banking  system,' 
he  would  'hesitate'  before  he  would  'be  found  under  the  banner  of  the 
system.'  But  the  question  was  not  between  the  government  and  the  Bank, 
but  between  the  legislative  and  the  executive  branches  of  the  government. 
Should  the  President  have  'the  power  to  create  a  bank,  and  the  consequent 
control  over  the  currency?'  This  was  'the  real  question.' 

If  the  Bank  was  so  injurious  with  Congressional  control,  what  safety 
would  there  be  for  the  currency  when  transferred  to  local  banks,  wholly 
free  of  control?  Calhoun  honestly  could  not  see  how  the  government  could 
deposit  in  state  institutions  without  involving  all  'the  objections  against 
a  bank  of  the  United  States.' 15  His  reasons  for  supporting  the  Bank  and 
attacking  the  President  are  plausible  and  not  without  much  foundation. 
Yet,  knowing  the  clarity  of  his  vision,  his  hatred  of  all  forms  of  money 
power,  it  is  impossible  to  avoid  the  conclusion  that  his  hatred  of  Andrew 
Jackson  was  even  stronger. 


XVH  CALHOUN   AT  WAB,  265 


4 

It  was  Daniel  Webster  who  played  the  part  of  a  statesman.  In  March, 
1834,  he  stepped  to  the  foreground.  Free  from  the  ambition  that  nagged 
at  Clay  and  the  bitterness  that  gnawed  at  Calhoun,  he  took  a  step,  bold 
indeed,  considering  his  own  relation  to  the  Bank.  His  suggestion  was  a 
compromise,  granting  the  Bank  a  six  years'  lease  on  life,  in  which  to  wind 
up  its  business,  stipulating,  meanwhile,  a  restoration  of  the  deposits.  His 
speech  was  the  most  statesmanlike  of  the  session,  but  the  Senate  was  in 
no  mood  for  statesmanship.  Calhoun,  although  eloquent  about  the  dis- 
tress that  'is  daily  consigning  hundreds  to  poverty  and  misery  .  .  .  taking 
employment  and  bread  from  the  laborer,'  wrecking  business  and  whirling 
financiers  'to  the  top'  of  the  wheel,  condemned  Webster's  proposal  as  al- 
most entirely  'objectionable/ 

He  could  boast  that  'I  do  not  stand  here  the  partisan  of  any  .  .  .  class 
.  .  .  the  rich  or  the  poor,  the  property-holder,  or  the  money-holder.'  He 
could  warn  that  whoever  had  the  currency  'under  their  exclusive  control, 
might  control  the  valuation  of  all  ...  property  .  .  .  and  possess  them- 
selves of  it  at  their  pleasure.'  He  knew  that  the  federal  currency  had  once 
more  degenerated  into  bank  notes,  scarcely  of  more  value  than  the  paper 
they  were  printed  on. 

Something  had  to  be  done. 

But  Webster's  method  was  too  extreme.  He  pointed  out  that  even  those 
who  thought  the  tariff  unconstitutional  had  allowed  'upwards  of  eight 
years  for  the  termination  of  the  system/  contending  that  to  end  it  at  once 
would  spread  destruction  and  ruin  over  a  large  portion  of  the  country.  So 
he  offered  a  counter-proposal,  extending  the  Bank's  charter  for  twelve 
years,  with  the  value  of  gold  to  be  established  in  a  ratio  of  16  to  1  with 
silver,  and  the  notes  of  no  bank  to  be  used  cin  the  [payment  of  the]  dues  of 
the  government.' ld 

Six  years  was  long  enough  for  any  institution  to  wind  up  its  affairs, 
and  it  is  difficult  not  to  believe  that  Calhoun  was  actuated  by  motives 
little  higher  than  sheer  opposition.  But  it  was  the  Administration  that  had 
the  votes  and  the  people  who  had  made  up  their  minds,  and  all  attempts 
at  delay  only  hastened  the  Bank's  end. 

The  opposition  could  censure,  however,  and  under  Clay's  leadership, 
with  whole-hearted  support  from  both  Webster  and  Calhoun,  a  vote  cen- 
suring the  President's  removal  of  the  deposits  was  put  through,  26  to  20. 
Three  weeks  later  came  a  reply  from  Andrew  Jackson.  He  spoke  of  his  old 
war  wounds.  He  recounted  his  services  to  his  country.  And  finally,  he 
denied  the  Senatorial  right  to  censure  him  at  all. 

The  pathos  of  this  appeal  drew  no  tears  from  Calhoun.  With  a  vitupera- 


266  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

tion  that  he  never  exceeded,  he  thrust  bitterly  at  the  President,  infatuated 
man  I  blinded  by  ambition  .  .  .  dark,  lawless,  and  insatiable  ambition  I' 
He  sneered  at  the  President's  appeal  to  the  people  cas  their  immediate 
representative/  as  allies  in  his  war  'against  the  usurpations  of  the  Senate.' 
No  'such  aggregate  as  the  American  people  .  .  .  existed,'  Calhoun  con- 
tended. States  were  the  units  of  government.  'Why,  he  never  received  a 
vote  from  the  American  people!'  * 

The  President  had  no  right  to  question  the  Senate.  The  Senate  was  the 
sole  judge  of  its  own  powers.  The  President  had  no  right  to  send  a  protest! 
The  Senate  had  no  right  to  receive  it.1T 


Whatever  Calhoun's  motives,  his  fears  were  real.  No  man  in  history  ever 
more  clearly  warned  the  nation  of  the  dangers  of  unchecked  Presidential 
power;  and  regardless  of  how  much  Calhoun  may  have  feared  the  power 
of  Jackson,  he  feared  Jackson's  precedents  even  more.  Fighting  from  op- 
posite sides  and  against  each  other,  Calhoun  and  Jackson  had  revealed 
the  dual  dangers  of  economic  tyranny  and  federal  tyranny  to  freedom, 
to  the  whole  federal  system  itself.  Which  danger  was  the  more  real  would 
long  remain  a  moot  point. 

The  cause  of  Executive  consolidation,  Calhoun  thought,  could  largely 
be  traced  to  'the  fiscal  action  of  the  Government.  .  .  .  While  millions 
are  heaped  up  in  the  Treasury  .  .  .  constituting  an  immense  fund  .  .  . 
to  unite  in  one  solid  and  compact  band,  all,  in  and  out  of  office,  who  prefer 
their  own  advancement  to  the  publick  good,  any  attempt  to  arrest  the 
progress  of  power  and  corruption  must  end  in  disappointment.'  And  to 
Calhoun,  all — the  centralization  of  Executive  power;  the  encroachments 
on  the  rights  of  the  states;  Jackson's  appointment  of  his  Vice-President 
and  'successor'  in  the  heat  of  the  new  party  conventions;  the  'extravagant' 
expenditure  of  public  funds  with  the  resultant  increase  in  votes  as  thanks 
for  services  rendered — all  were  part  of  a  new  pattern  to  become  a  peren- 
nial problem  in  American  government.  Precedents  had  been  set  that  if 
not  reversed  would  endow  the  hitherto  federal  government  with  powers 
undreamed  of  at  the  Constitutional  Convention. 

Jackson,  declared  Calhoun  on  February  13,  183S,  had  invoked,  not 
one-man  rule,  but  a  monarchy.  'The  nature  of  a  thing  is  in  its  substance; 
and  the  name  soon  accomodates  itself  to  the  substance.'  Sixty  thousand 
employees  were  on  the  federal  payroll.  One  hundred  thousand,  including 
the  pensioners,  were  dependent  upon  the  federal  Treasury  for  support. 

*  Presidents,  of  course,  are  chosen  by  the  Electoral  College,  the  members  of  which, 
in  that  day,  were  appointed  by  each  state  'hi  such  manner  as  the  Legislature  thereof 
may  direct/  (Constitution  of  the  United  States,  Article  II,  Section  1.) 


XVH          CALHOUN  AT  WAR  267 

Nor  did  this  include  the  unnumbered  thousands,  hopeful  for  future  bene- 
fits. What  better  way  to  build  up  a  dynasty?  The  President  wants  my 
vote;  and  I  want  his  patronage;  I  will  vote  as  he  wishes,  and  he  will  give 
me  the  office  I  wish  for.'18  Official  patronage  alone,  Calhoun  charged, 
held  Jackson's  party  together.  And  no  speedier  means  toward  centraliza- 
tion in  government  could  be  found. 

Calhoun  had  no  praise  for  Jackson's  balancing  of  the  federal  budget; 
indeed,  he  feared  the  danger  inherent  in  surplus  revenues.  Indignantly  he 
countered  Benton's  suggestion  that  governmental  expenditures  be  in- 
creased. Then  would  the  number  be  doubled  fof  those  who  live  or  expect 
to  live  by  the  Government.7  He  swept  aside  proposals  to  turn  surplus 
funds  over  to  the  'pet  banks/  to  bank-stock  speculators  in  public  lands 
who  were  'rapidly  divesting  the  people  of  the  noble  patrimony  left  by 
our  ancestors.'  Why  not  deposit  them  equally  in  the  treasuries  of  the 
states?  It  is  objected  that  such  a  distribution  would  be  a  bribe  to  the 
people.  A  bribe  ...  to  return  it  to  those  to  whom  it  justly  belongs,  and 
from  whose  pockets  it  should  never  have  been  taken  .  .  .?'  If  left  to  the 
government  itself,  remember  the  cthousands  of  agents,  contractors,  and 
jobbers  through  whose  hands  it  must  pass,  and  in  whose  pockets  so  large 
a  part  would  be  deposited.'  * 


Calhoun  sensed  the  spirit  of  the  age— but  was  against  it.  Furiously  he 
turned  upon  a  statement  of  James  Buchanan's  that  a  national  majority 
could  vote  down  the  Constitution  and  the  government  of  the  states;  that 
such  was  the  essence  of  democracy.  This  was  not  Calhoun's  America,  the 
America  of  which  he  had  expressed  despair  to  the  Senate,  but  for  which 
he  would  fight  on.  His  America  was  'not  a  Democracy/  but  a  Republic. 
Ours  was  a  Constitution  'which  respects  all  the  great  interests  of  the 
State,  giving  each  a  voice/ 20  He  did  not  deny  the  rights  of  rebellion  and 
revolution,  but  neither  could  the  opposition  deny  the  right  of  nullification! 
America  was  in  transition,  and  so  was  he.  He  had  come  far,  tragically 
far,  from  the  bright  hopeful  days  when  he  had  trusted  the  people  and 
trusted  the  government.  A  statesman,  he  had  too  often  played  lie  part 
of  a  politician  during  these  crucial  years.  Politically  and  personally  he 
had  reached  the  lowest  ebb  of  his  entire  career. 


xvm 

The  Age  of  Jackson 


IN  ALL  AMERICAN  HISTORY  there  is  no  greater  tragedy  than  the  war  be- 
tween Andrew  Jackson  and  John  C.  Calhoun.  Who  was  to  blame  is  ir- 
relevant. Which  was  the  more  guilty,  the  more  prone  to  let  his  selfish 
desire  for  victory  transcend  his  obligations  to  the  Southern  and  American 
people  alike,  is  unimportant.  What  matters  is  that,  for  all  their  variance 
on  specific  issues  and  means  of  attaining  their  ends,  those  ends  were  alike. 

Most  historians  have  drawn  them  apart,  contrasting  Calhoun's  theory 
of  the  state  and  Jackson's  concept  of  the  nation  as  the  ultimate  power  in 
American  government.  Yet  personally,  economically,  and  even  politically, 
these  two  contenders  were  alike. 

Each  bore  the  marked  characteristics  of  the  same  race:  the  thin,  wiry 
bodies,  the  long  heads,  bristling  with  thick,  unruly  hair;  the  deep-set 
eyes,  gaunt  cheeks,  and  grim  lines  of  mouth  and  jaw.  They  walked  alike, 
with  long,  swinging  strides.  They  talked  alike,  for  theirs  was  the  vigorous, 
accented  speech  of  the  Southern  hill-country,  from  which  all  Jackson's 
roamings,  and  all  Calhoun's  years  in  New  England  and  Washington, 
could  not  smooth  away  the  last  traces  of  Scotch-Irish  brogue  and  burr. 

They  had  the  characteristic  gloominess  of  their  heritage.  Each  had  a 
remarkable  capacity  for  exaggerating  the  evil  around  him.  Where  Jack- 
son saw  the  Bank  of  the  United  States  as  'a  hydra  of  corruption,'  and 
nullification  as  a  sword  forged  by  Calhoun  for  the  express  purpose  of 
dividing  the  Union  to  make  himself  President  of  one-half,  Calhoun 
found  nothing  but  evil  in  the  breezy  expansiveness  of  Clay's  'American 
System,'  nothing  but  'deluded'  fanaticism  in  the  moral  idealism  of  the 
abolitionists. 

It  is  true  that  Jackson's  great  gift  was  intuition — delicate,  sensitive,  un- 
cannily perceptive;  and  Calhoun's,  a  mind  so  powerful,  so  sharp-edged 
and  clear,  despite  its  narrowness,  that  in  all  American  history,  perhaps, 
only  the  intellect  of  Jonathan  Edwards  can  compare  with  it.  Yet  such 
differences  as  there  were  between  Jackson  and  Calhoun  were  more  environ- 
mental than  temperamental.  Jackson  was  the  symbol  of  the  frontier,  of 
the  majority  mood  of  America,  but  Calhoun  belonged  to  a  state  and  a  tra- 
dition. His  very  moral  code,  unlike  Jackson's,  was  not  so  much  personal 


XVHI  THE  AGE  OF   JACKSON  269 

as  a  matter  of  upholding  the  standards  of  his  section.  Calhoun  had  studied 
theories;  Jackson  knew  facts.  Jackson  was  a  man  of  action;  Calhoun  was 
a  man  of  thought. 

But  on  economic  fundamentals  they  were  in  agreement  Although  his- 
tory would  record  Jackson  as  the  great  apostle  of  democracy  and  Cal- 
houn as  the  defender  of  slavery,  Jackson  was  the  greater  landowner  and 
slaveholder;  and  if  he  ever  expressed  an  opinion  against  slavery,  we  have 
no  record  of  it.  What  Calhoun  and  Jackson  both  knew  was  that  the  strong- 
hold of  freedom  was  the  landholder,  free  to  vote  according  to  his  choice, 
and  not  according  to  the  will  of  an  employer,  with  life  and  death  power 
over  his  job.  And  if  Jackson  extended  his  stronghold  of  freedom  to  include 
the  landless  factory  hand;  if  Calhoun  saw  the  country,  not  as  a  battle- 
ground between  the  masses  and  the  classes,  but  as  a  unit  of  discordant 
minorities,  each  with  a  right  to  freedom  and  self-realization — both  men 
recognized  finance  capitalism  as  the  common  enemy. 

Alike  the  two  men  assuredly  were.  They  were  alike  in  their  blood  and 
bearing,  their  reverence  for  women  and  affection  for  children,  their  love 
of  home  and  the  land;  the  very  intensity  with  which  they  felt  and  thought. 
And  their  likenesses  made  them  mortal  enemies.  They  felt  exactly  the 
same  way  about  entirely  different  things.  Their  patriotism — as  each  saw 
patriotism — their  adherence  to  principle,  regardless  of  personal  conse- 
quences, brought  them  into  headlong  conflict.  And  neither  could  admit 
defeat. 

Each  captured  the  imagination  of  the  American  people.  Gallant  and 
reckless  warriors  both,  they  had  the  courage  to  risk  all  in  order  to  win  all. 
Hated  as  they  both  were,  neither  was  ever  despised. 


Had  dear  thinking  prevailed,  had  Calhoun  and  Jackson  risen  to  the  states- 
manship worthy  of  them  during  these  troubled  times,  history  might  have 
been  very  different.  Both  had  muddied  the  issues:  Jackson,  by  support- 
ing big  business  on  the  tariff,  while  he  fought  it  on  the  Bank;  Calhoun, 
by  doing  just  the  reverse.  But  these  were  not  the  years  for  clear  thinking. 
It  was  a  time  of  passions,  violent  and  unleashed,  of  party  battles  and 
personal  hatreds.  Jackson,  sitting  knee  to  knee  with  Calhoun  in  the  Sen- 
ate Chamber,  attending  a  funeral,  could  gloat  over  the  'peculiar  twinkle' 
in  the  Southerner's  eye,  indulging  the  comforting  belief  that  insanity  was 
breeding  in  his  rival,  who  would  be  confined  to  a  lunatic  asylum  a  year 
or  two  hence.  And  Calhoun  could  brood  that  Jackson,  in  his  fiendish  'de- 
sire to  retain  power,'  was  bent  'on  a  French  war,'  for  had  he  not  said 
'that  nothing  could  induce  him  to  take  a  third  term,  but  a  war  with 
France?'1  Jackson's  sturdy  pronouncement  that  American  claims  against 


270  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

France  would  be  collected— by  force,  if  necessary — which  brought  even 
old  John  Quincy  Adams  to  his  feet  cheering,  brought  no  echoes  from  the 
bitter  Calhoun. 

In  this  year  of  1835  there  occurred  the  first  outright  attempt  to  assas- 
sinate a  President  of  the  United  States,  as  a  pistol  was  brandished  in  the 
portico  of  the  Senate  Chamber,  and  Harriet  Martineau  saw  the  white  hands 
of  the  would-be  killer,  'struggling  above  the  heads  of  the  crowd,'  before  he 
was  pinioned  and  dragged  down.  Such  was  the  madness  of  the  time  that 
within  two  hours  the  'name  of  almost  every  eminent  politician  was  mixed  up 
with  that  of  the  poor  maniac.' 2  For  Jackson,  who  had  been  hastily  taken 
home,  looking  'very  ill  and  weak,'  had  strength  enough  left  to  assert  that 
Calhoun  and  Poindexter  were  those  most  guilty.  It  was  their  intemperate 
ravings — so  charged  the  President — that  had  incited  the  fanatic  into  the 
belief  that  by  murdering  Jackson  he  would  rid  the  country  of  a  cruel  tyrant. 

The  Senatorial  response  to  these  accusations  was  something  less  than 
temperate.  White  with  rage,  Calhoun  stood  up  in  the  Chamber  and  spurned 
the  charge.  It  was  one  more  attempt  of  Andrew  Jackson  to  throttle  free 
speech,  to  muzzle  Congress,  to  stifle  even  freedom  of  thought. 

The  Senate  was  impressed,  but  not  the  American  people.  It  was  the  'Age 
of  Jackson'  still,  and  Old  Hickory  was  impervious  to  all  but  the  ravages 
of  illness  and  age.  For  Jackson  was  one  of  those  Presidents  who  come 
twice  or  thrice  in  a  century,  whom  the  world  accepts  for  what  they  are, 
not  for  what  they  do.  Declared  William  Wirt:  'General  Jackson  can  be 
President  for  life,  if  he  chooses.' s 


Jackson's  America  had  become  Jackson's  Washington.  The  city  where 
the  national  mind  was  to  be  formed  was  becoming  the  prototype  of  the 
national  mind.  Virile,  lusty,  raucous,  it  was  only  too  symbolic  of  that 
national  democracy  which  Andrew  Jackson  had  fathered.  To  the  'aris- 
tocracy' of  Capitol  Hill  and  Georgetown  Heights,  it  seemed  as  if  Amer- 
ica had  been  overturned.  They  were  wrong.  America  had  not  overturned; 
it  had  merely  overflowed.  The  people  had  always  been  there,  but  they 
had  never  been  to  Washington  before. 

They  were  there  now:  young  mechanics  shouting  and  reeling  along 
Pennsylvania  Avenue,  unknown  Irish  laborers,  unloved,  unmourned,  dying 
where  they  fell  and  buried  in  unmarked  graves;  weather-beaten  frontiers- 
men who  had  walked  a  hundred  miles  to  see  Old  Hickory;  officeseekers 
by  the  hundreds,  whose  expenses  home  Jackson  often  paid  out  of  his 
own  pocket.4  Lost  in  the  mobs  were  such  potent  figures  as  short,  slender, 
shabbily  dressed  Frank  Blair,  the  sarcastic  and  slashing  editor  of  Jack- 
son's Washington  Globe,  or  little  Amos  Kendall,  a  young  man  still,  but 


THE  AGE  OF   JACKSON 

with  masses  of  white  hair  and  white  side-whiskers  framing  his  yellowish 
face,  his  frail  figure  slipping  through  the  swirling  crowd  with  'elfin  speed.7 
Yet  those  in  the  know  were  well  aware  that  these  figures  were  the  powers 
behind  Jackson's  throne,  the  shapers  of  Presidential  policy. 

Not  even  they  were  more  feared  than  a  dumpy  little  woman  in  calico, 
a  poke-bonnet  shading  sparkling  blue  eyes  and  teeth  of  glowing  white* 
To  see  her  was  to  see  ladies  'sweep  their  veils  around  their  faces  and  men 
.  .  .  scuttle  off,  hiding  behind  their  hats.' 5  For  this  was  Anne  Royall, 
the  'widow  with  the  Serpent's  tongue/  from  whose  prying  curiosity  no 
bought  vote  was  hidden,  no  public  or  private  scandal  safe. 

King  Andrew's  spies  lurked — so  it  was  said — in  every  drawing  room,  re- 
peating 'anything  said  in  the  least  critical  of  the  Administration.'  As  names 
were  carefully  concealed,  everyone  in  society  suspected  everyone  else. 
Mrs.  Smith  relieved  her  feelings  at  Sunday  church  services  by  squeezing 
back  against  the  Presidential  fingers  as  they  gripped  the  edge  of  her  pew. 
Henry  Clay,  'gracefully  reclining  on  a  sofa  in  the  firelight,  his  face 
flushed  and  animated  with  emotion,'  spoke  for  the  opposition:  'There  is 
not  in  Cairo  or  Constantinople,  a  greater  moral  despotism  than  is  .  .  * 
exercised  in  this  city  over  public  opinion.  Why,  a  man  dare  not  avow  what 
he  thinks  or  feels  ...  if  he  happens  to  differ  with  the  powers  that  be.' 6 


Something  less  than  genteel  were  the  Presidential  receptions.  The  fastidi- 
ous George  Bancroft  was  of  the  opinion  that  'a  respectable  woman  would 
have  far  preferred  to  walk  ...  the  streets  than  subject  herself  to  the  're- 
volting scenes'  of  the  White  House  drawing  room.  There  a  bearded  and 
buckskinned  frontiersman  'in  all  his  dirt'  could  force  his  way  to  the  Presi- 
dent, pumping  his  arm  with  one  hand  and  flourishing  a  whip  with  the 
other.  There  the  satin-clad  toes  of  the  women  were  muddied  and  trampled 
by  a  veritable  army  of  mechanics  and  apprentices,  'pouncing  upon  the 
wine  and  refreshments,  tearing  the  cake  with  .  .  .  ravenous  .  .  .  hunger; 
starvelings,  and  fellows  with  dirty  faces  and  dirty  manners,  all  the  refuse 
that  Washington  could  .  .  .  turn  forth  from  the  workshops  and  stables.'  7 
And  yet  in  Jackson  himself,  stooped  and  frail,  proudly  indifferent  to  the 
loss  of  his  front  teeth,  there  was  a  dignity,  a  courtesy  if  you  will,  that 
transcended  his  surroundings.  The  people's  President  he  might  be;  his  in- 
tegrity was  his  own. 

For  those  of  roistering  inclinations  there  was  plenty  of  'real  life'  in 
Jackson's  Washington.  Around  punchbowls,  'large  as  a  Roman  bathing 
tub,' 8  newcomers  were  saluted  with  a  ladleful  of  Daniel  Webster's  'special 
mixture'  (Medford  rum,  brandy,  champagne,  arrack,  maraschino,  strong 
green  tea,  lemon  juice,  and  sugar).9  For  all-night  parties  were  the  shadowy 


272  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

cellars,  'not  quite  so  well  furnished  as  the  common  resorts  of  cabmen 
...  in  London/  where  Negro  waiters  served  oysters,  venison,  and  roast 
duck,  on  dirty  tablecloths.  Mechanics  swaggered  in,  calling  for  cheese 
and  crackers;  Kentuckians,  'full  of  oaths  and  tobacco  juice,'  smoked  and 
spat,  only  a  few  inches  from  young  bucks  with  perfumed  hair  and  im- 
ported kid  gloves,  who  discussed  women  'in  French  slang.' 10 

Faro  banks  lined  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  all  the  way  from  the  Capitol 
to  the  Indian  Queen;  and  light  from  dripping  sperm  candles  flickered 
faintly  against  the  windows  of  Senatorial  coaches.  Out  beyond  Washing- 
ton, at  Bladensburg,  were  the  race-tracks  and  the  dueling  grounds,  and 
in  secret  but  accessible  places  were  cockpits,  where  even  the  President 
of  the  United  States  might  show  up  to  cheer  his  favorites  on.11 


Washington  was  still  a  frontier  town.  For  accommodations  the  public 
servant  still  had  his  choice  of  the  'mean  insignificant-looking'  boarding 
houses,  or  of  inns  like  Gadsby's,  whose  'pretensions  to  aristocracy'  rested 
on  'four  clean  walls  .  .  .  and  rooms  agreeable  and  airy.' "  Calhoun  bore 
the  common  lot  without  complaint.  For  his  personal  comfort  he  cared 
little.  He  was  coming  more  and  more  to  live  in  his  intellect,  'with  no 
thought  of  the  body.' "  But  that  he  was  not  immune  to  hardships  is  indi- 
cated by  his  pleasure  the  one  winter  that  he  was  actually  comfortable. 
He  was  at  'Mrs  Page's  on  the  avenue,  nearly  opposite  to  the  central 
market.'  The  furniture,  rooms,  and  board  were  'very  good/  the  landlady 
'obliging/  and  the  servants  'excellent.'  The  mess  itself,  he  told  Anna 
Maria,  was  'dull,  but  quiet/  which  suited  him  perfectly.  After  the  grind 
of  the  day,  he  sought  only  rest  or  'agreeable'  company,  preferably  not 
'too  discordant  on  political  subjects.'  One  winter  he  found  himself  with 
a  'temperance  mess/  which  was  congenial  enough,  except  that  he  was  the 
only  Southerner  in  the  group.14 

His  mess  of  1834,  however,  was  neither  dull  nor  harmonious.  If  Ben: 
Perley  Poore  is  to  be  believed,  no  more  high-powered  group  of  dynamos 
ever  sat  under  a  Washington  rooftree  than  around  the  dinner  table  of  the 
United  States  Hotel  that  winter.  Looking  about  him,  Calhoun  would  have 
been  stabbed  with  memories,  now  twenty  years  old.  For  there  sat  Henry 
Clay,  his  smile  as  mocking  and  impudent  as  in  youth;  and  nearby  Daniel 
Webster,  ponderous  now,  both  in  motion  and  speech.  At  his  side  was  an- 
other Bay  Stater,  a  lanky  and  long-winded  young  Congressman  named 
Edward  Everett,  overawed  by  the  dual  presence  of  Massachusetts'  two 
greatest  men,  Webster  and  former  President  John  Quincy  Adams.  Scarcely 
less  awe-inspiring  was  the  presence  of  a  shaggy  graying  man  of  seventy- 
nine,  Chief  Justice  John  Marshall,  now  in  the  twilight  of  his  long  career. 


THE  AGE  OF   JACKSON  273 

Completely  unreserved  in  his  opinions,  Marshall  could  confuse  intellects 
as  great  as  Webster's  when  launched  into  a  display  of  his  fine-spun  legal- 
ism;  but  it  is  doubtful  that  Calhoun,  however,  would  have  permitted  him- 
self to  be  drawn  into  argument.  Nullification  was  still  dangerously  near 
the  surface  of  the  minds  of  each;  and  each  knew  the  gulf  that  separated 
him  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  other.  But  Calhoun  might  have  en- 
joyed the  conversation  of  Justice  Story,  his  eager  face  mobile  as  a  child's; 
and  ready  always  to  talk  for  hours  to  anyone  who  had  the  hours  to  give 
him.15 

With  Clay  and  Marshall  present,  it  is  easy  to  believe  in  the  'flashes  of 
merriment  which  set  the  table  in  a  roar/  as  Poore  described  it.  But  the 
Washington  journalist's  further  assertion,  that  'in  their  familiar  inter- 
course with  each  other  they  had  all  the  tenderness  of  brethren,' lft  is  more 
pleasant  to  believe  than  capable  of  proof.  The  story  is  in  the  facts;  by  the 
end  of  a  single  Congressional  session  the  highly  charged  combination  was 
scattered;  and  Calhoun  was  back  with  the  Southerners. 

In  the  stately  mansions  on  Georgetown  Heights  the  gracious  manners  of 
old  Maryland  were  still  maintained.  Even  foreign  visitors  exclaimed  at  the 
'continental  ease'  of  life  in  the  'Co't  end'  of  Washington,  with  its  roster 
of  'pleasant,  clever  people/  who  came  'to  muse  and  be  amused';  but  Cal- 
houn, welcome  guest  though  he  would  have  been  in  these  homes,  could 
not  stretch  his  salary  to  a  point  where  he  could  repay  hospitality.  Society 
saw  little  of  him  now.  Maintaining  bachelor  quarters,  and  freed  from  the 
social  responsibilities  of  the  Vice-President  or  the  Secretary  of  War,  he 
was  freed  also  from  the  necessity  of  accepting  invitations.  Social  life  in 
Washington  in  the  eighteen-thirties,  as  today,  was  a  career  in  itself;  as 
Amos  Kendall  observed,  The  "big  bugs"  here  pay  no  attention  to  the  sun 
...  in  regulating  their  meals.'  Guests  were  invited  for  five,  assembled  at 
six,  sat  down  to  dinner  at  eight,  nine,  or  ten,  and  by  eleven  were  scarcely 
able  to  leave  the  table  at  all.  Now  in  a  state  of  declared  hostilities  with 
the  Jackson  Administration,  Calhoun  could  hear  at  second  hand  of  the 
'squeeze'  at  the  Postmaster  General's,  where  nearly  four  hundred  people, 
the  women  'too  tightly  laced  and  their  bosoms  and  shoulders  much 
exposed/  crammed  chairs,  dosets,  and  corners  of  an  eight-room  house. 
Undoubtedly  with  one,  at  least,  of  Kendall's  opinions,  Calhoun  would  thor- 
oughly have  agreed,  that  'if  there  is  more  extravagance,  folly,  and  cor- 
ruption any  where  .  .  .  than  in  this  city,  I  do  not  wish  to  see  the  place.' 1T 

But  foreign  visitors,  steeled  to  expect  the  worst  of  Washington,  were 
all  the  more  appreciative  of  its  occasional  beauties.  Fanny  Kemble,  from 
her  bouncing  stagecoach,  had  been  struck  with  the  'mass  of  white  build- 
ings with  its  terraces  and  columns/  standing  out  in  sharp  relief  against 
a  clear  sky.18  Even  Mrs.  Basil  Hall,  although  finding  the  city  'as  unlike 
the  capital  of  a  great  country,  as  it  is  possible  to  imagine/  conceded  that 
the  Capitol  building  itself  was  'very  commanding  and  beautiful.' M  Most 


274  J°HN   C-   CALHOUN 

surprising  was  the  usually  supercritical  Mrs.  Trollope,  who  was  'de- 
lighted with  the  whole  aspect  of  Washington:  light,  cheerful  and  airy,  it 
reminded  me  of  our  fashionable  watering  places.'  She  deplored  the  lagging 
imaginations  of  those  who  mocked  because  gigantic  plans  had  not  yet  been 
put  into  execution,  looking  instead  at  the  structural  outlines  of  the  ^me- 
tropolis rising  gradually  into  life  and  splendour/  at  the  'magnificent  width' 
of  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  with  its  shade  trees,  grass,  shrubs,  and  the  classic 
outlines  of  the  public  buildings.  The  foreign  legations  gave  an  air  of 
'tone,'  lacking  in  other  American  cities.  There  were  no  drays  or  other 
signs  of  commerce,  and  well-dressed  men  and  women  sauntered  along  the 
avenue,  pausing  to  look  into  the  windows  of  the  shops,  or  of  'Mr.  Piskey 
Thompson,  the  English  bookseller,  with  his  pretty  collection  of  all  sorts 
of  pretty  literature,  fresh  from  London.'  *° 


Nowhere  were  contrasts  more  garish  than  in  the  House  of  Representatives. 
There,  against  a  stately  backdrop  of  fourteen  marble  columns  rising  forty 
feet  to  the  vaulted  dome,  the  actors  of  Jackson's  Washington  played  their 
parts,  for  'traveling  expenses  and  eight  dollars  a  day.'  They  lolled  in 
well-stuffed  armchairs,  tossed  their  feet  to  the  tops  of  their  desks,  whittled, 
or  dug  at  their  nails  with  four-bladed  penknives,  'a  large  majority  with 
their  hats  on,  and  nearly  all  spitting.'  They  strode  up  and  down  the  aisles, 
dodging  the  page  boys  and  kicking  aside  the  welter  of  papers,  letters,  and 
envelopes  which  strewed  the  carpets;  yet  were  reported  to  maintain  an 
almost  'perfect  decorum.' 

From  the  sidelines  only  the  echoes  of  voices  could  be  heard,  but  visitors 
had  early  found  that  the  beauty  of  the  House  was  a  reason  for  'going 
again  and  again';  and  that  its  advantage  was  that  'you  cannot  hear  in  it.' 
There  was  indeed  much  talk  of  building  a  glass  ceiling  to  hold  the  sound, 
so  members  could  at  least  'understand  the  question  before  the  house'; 
but  then,  as  now,  their  remarks  were  designed  primarily  for  home  con- 
sumption, and  during  a  single  session  virtually  every  member  took  pains 
to  make  three  or  four  'long-winded  speeches  about  nothing,'  littered  with 
screaming  eagles,  'star-spangled  banners,  sovereign  people,  claptrap,  flat- 
tery, and  humbug.' 21 

Downstairs,  in  the  stuffy  depths  of  the  basement,  John  Marshall,  Story, 
and  Gabriel  Duvall — old  men  now,  the  last  ties  with  the  early  days  of 
the  Republic,  struggled  valiantly  to  maintain  their  judicial  decorum,  as 
'flippant  young  belles5  passed  a  stream  of  books  up  to  the  desk  to  be  auto- 
graphed.22 Above,  in  the  Senate  Chamber,  a  certain  dignity  prevailed. 
Senators  did  not  wear  hats,  nor  toss  their  legs.  The  Chamber  itself  was 
conceded  to  be  'the  finest  drawing  room  in  Washington,'  and  foreign 


XVHI  THE  AGE  OF  JACKSON  275 

visitors  watched  in  wonder  as  Senators  like  Calhoun  and  Benton  strug- 
gled through  close-packed  rows  of  crinolines,  only  to  find  a  lady  and  a 
box  of  bonbons  already  established  in  their  seats. 

Henry  Clay  was  the  dominant  figure  of  the  Jacksonian  Congresses. 
The  years  had  taken  their  toll  of  the  Cock  of  Kentucky.  He  was  thinner 
than  ever,  his  face  weather-beaten,  and  his  white  hair  combed  straight 
back  from  his  temples.  'The  face  and  figure  of  a  farmer,  but  .  .  .  the  air 
of  a  divine/  one  enthusiast  described  him.  Moderation  had  become  the 
'striking  characteristic'  of  the  immoderate  Kentuckian.23  Since  his  nervous 
collapse  he  had  been  compelled  to  still  his  storms,  and  the  sticks  of  pep- 
permint candy  which  he  sucked  to  sweeten  his  confessed  bad  tempers 
were  now  as  much  in  evidence  as  his  snuffbox  had  been  only  a  few  years 
before.24 

Blond,  bland,  exasperatingly  unruffled,  taking  snuff  or  ostentatiously 
reading  a  novel  when  under  attack,  Martin  Van  Buren,  'The  Red  Fox,' 
lounged  in  the  Vice-Presidential  chair.  He  smiled  easily,  but  his  smile 
did  not  reach  his  eyes;  he  questioned  much,  but  revealed  little.  Language 
to  him,  Perley  Poore  thought,  seemed  a  means  of  concealing  rather  than 
revealing  thought.25  Behind  his  silky  exterior,  he  was  inflexible,  perpetu- 
ally on  guard. 

All  knew  him  to  be  Calhoun's  'evil  genius.3  Yet  the  way  he  smiled  and 
'fawned'  upon  the  great  Carolinian  was  marked  to  even  the  most  casual 
observers.  What  did  he  fear?  Why  should  Calhoun  be  conciliated  when 
it  was  generally  conceded  that  he  had  been  stripped  of  all  power  'to  do 
mischief?  None  who  really  knew  Calhoun,  who  had  plumbed  the  depths 
of  his  cold,  proud  contempt  for  Van  Buren,  had  any  doubts  that  if  he 
were  'really  dangerous/  he  would  not  be  kept  quiet  by  any  such  appease- 
ment as  this. 

It  was  Calhoun,  next  to  Van  Buren  and  Clay,  who  compelled  the  most 
attention  from  Senate  visitors.  The  modeling  of  his  'remarkable'  head,  his 
taut  mouth,  his  haggard,  'intense,  introverted'  look,  'struck  every  be- 
holder.' *  The  'evidence  of  power  in  everything  that  he  said  or  did,'  in- 
deed commanded  a  sort  of  'intellectual  reverence';  but  with  the  discern- 
ing, this  soon  turned  to  'absolute  melancholy,'  for  only  too  well  did  they 
realize  how  self-destructive  and  mischievous  all  this  dammed-up  force 
could  be.27 

Prestige  he  still  had;  the  prestige  of  any  man  who  could  control  a  half- 
dozen  votes  and  the  balance  of  power  in  the  Senate  Chamber;  but  it  was 
of  a  sinister  sort.  Well  did  Calhoun  know  how  long  was  the  road  he  would 
have  to  travel  before  he  would  be  received  again  into  the  trust  and  af- 
fections of  the  American  people. 

To  Anna  Maria  he  frankly  admitted:  'We  can  do  little  ...  but  to 
check  the  progress  of  usurpation.'28  He  would  not  permit  his  few  fol- 
lowers to  merge  with  the  Whigs;  he  was  an  outcast  from  the  Democrats; 


276  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

and  in  the  Senate  itself  an  object  of  suspicion,  far  removed  from  the 
whole-hearted  admiration  he  had  once  known.  Had  it  not  been  for  the 
loyalty  of  the  young  men  of  Carolina,  he  could  scarcely  have  stood  this 
period  at  all. 

One  group,  however,  gave  the  lonely  Carolinian  an  ungrudging  admira- 
tion and  even  affection.  These  were  the  little  Senate  page  boys,  the  Crush- 
ing, dancing,  little  Pucks/  Charles  Dickens  called  them;  who  filled  the 
snuffboxes  and  kept  the  sand-dusters  full  of  prepared  sand  for  blotting 
ink.  The  victims  of  supercharged  dynamos  like  Benton,  who  would  send 
them  scurrying  down  the  dark  basement  corridors  of  the  Capitol  in  the 
dead  of  a  midnight  session  to  stagger  back  with  their  arms  full  of  dusty 
folios;  they  were  the  willing  slaves  of  those  they  liked  the  best.  And  of  all 
the  Senators  at  this  period,  the  grave  and  undemanding  South  Carolinian 
was  the  one  whom  the  pages  took  the  most ' delight  in  serving.' 

'Why?'  queried  James  Parton. 

'Because  he  was  so  democratic/  was  the  surprising  answer. 

'How  democratic?' 

'He  was  as  polite  to  a  page  as  to  the  President  of  the  Senate,  and  as 
considerate  of  his  feelings.' 29 

Bitter,  frustrated,  despondent  as  Calhoun  was,  he  had  still  his  'natural 
grace  and  dignity,  inviting  approach.'  Even  his  enemies  were  awed  by 
his  intellect,  and  foreign  visitors  found  him  'secretly  acknowledged'  as 
the  'greatest  genius  in  Congress.'80  Amos  Kendall  felt  the  heat  of  that 
'ardent  mind/  conceding  him  to  be  'brilliant/  but  'meteoric  and  eccen- 
tric/ seeing  nothing  in  any  light  but  his  own.  His  best  friends  were 
baffled  by  his  contradictions;  and  to  Benton  it  seemed  that  he  had  two 
sets  of  morals,  'one  for  private  life,  which  was  very  good,  and  another 
for  public  life,  which  was  very  bad.' 81  'Abstract  propositions'  were  the 
only  food  now  for  all  the  'restless  activity  and  energy  of  his  mind.' 


At  parties,  too,  guests  like  Harriet  Martineau  found  Calhoun  as  restless 
and  disturbing  a  figure  as  on  the  Senate  floor.  The  other  luminaries  could 
relax.  Clay,  who  in  masculine  society  would  put  his  feet  on  the  mantel- 
piece, drinking,  chewing,  and  spitting,  'like  a  regular  Kentucky  hog- 
drover/  was  'all  gentleness,  politeness,  and  cordiality  in  the  society  of 
ladies.' 32  Webster,  shaking  the  sofa  with  laughter,  could  be  the  'life  of 
the  company'  for  four  or  five  hours  on  end,  full  of  anecdotes,  and  talking 
only  'wisdom  enough  to  let  us  see  that  he  was  wise.' w 

But  not  Calhoun.  Calhoun  seldom  appeared  at  these  gatherings:  those 
who  cared  to  hear  'a  new  dissertation  upon  negative  powers'  or  a  further 
elaboration  of  the  nullification  doctrine,  with  which  he  was  'full  as  ever/ 


XVIH  THE  AGE  OF   JACKSON  277 

visited  him  in  his  rooms.  Occasionally  he  would  burst  in  for  a  few  min- 
utes, haranguing  men  before  the  fireside  as  if  they  were  in  the  Senate, 
putting  the  minds  of  his  companions  upon  'the  stretch'  with  his  painful 
intensity,  leaving  them  at  last  to  take  apart  his  'close,  rapid,  theoretical 
talk  to  see  what  they  could  make  of  it.'  ** 

Harriet  Martineau  marveled  at  these  displays,  but  the  man  himself 
interested  her  even  more.  To  her  he  seemed  like  an  intricate,  highly 
wrought  piece  of  machinery — 'the  thinking  machine/  his  friends  called 
him.  He  felt  so  passionately  that  he  could  hear  no  argument;  his  mind 
had  almost  lost  the  power  of  communicating  with  other  minds.  'I  know 
no  one/  Miss  Martineau  declared,  'who  lives  in  such  utter  intellectual 
solitude.'  Characteristic  was  his  peremptory,  arrogant  'Not  at  all,  not  at 
all/  whenever  one  of  his  favorite  positions  was  assailed.35  His  'moments 
of  softness/  when  reunited  with  his  family,  or  when  reminiscing  of  his 
old  college  days,  the  British  woman  found  'singularly  touching/  a  relief 
as  much  to  himself  as  to  others. 

Yet,  for  'all  his  vagaries/  she  admired  him  personally  far  more  than 
she  did  Webster  or  Clay.  The  attraction  was  mutual.  One  'of  her  greatest 
admirers/  her  abolitionist  opinions  notwithstanding,  Calhoun  played  host 
when  his  mess  gave  her  a  dinner  party,  which  broke  up  well  after  eleven 
with  the  singing  of  Scottish  airs.  In  the  plain,  deaf  little  British  author 
Calhoun  found  what  he  needed,  a  sympathetic  listener.  To  her  he  poured 
out  memories  of  his  earliest  childhood,  of  that  day,  now  fifty  years  past, 
when  standing  between  his  father's  knees  'his  first  political  emotions 
stirred  within  him,  awakened  by  his  parent's  talk.'  When  the  lioness  left 
at  last,  she  admitted  that  Calhoun  might  have  been  'offended  if  he  had 
known  .  .  .  with  what  affectionate  solicitude3  she  looked  after  him.  What 
destiny  could  hold  for  'that  high  spirit'  and  'a  mind  so  energetic/  she 
could  not  imagine.36 


8 

Benton,  'the  fiercest  tiger  in  the  Senate/  was  of  course  goading  the  high- 
strung  Carolinian  all  the  time.  Calhoun,  although  still  'very  impressive' 
in  debate  so  long  as  he  kept  to  his  subject,  was  far  too  overwrought  to 
endure  attack  with  any  calmness,  and  would  lash  back  at  his  tormentor 
with  painful  protestations.  'I  have  no  purpose  to  serve/  he  would  shout. 
'I  have  no  desire  to  be  here.'  He  had  sacrificed  all  for  his  'brave,  gallant 
little  State  of  South  Carolina.  Sir,  I  would  not  turn  upon  my  heel  to  be 
entrusted  with  management  of  the  Government.'  As  he  spoke,  his  brow 
darkened;  his  eyes  burned;  his  sentences  became  'abrupt  and  intense'; 
and  it  seemed  to  Harriet  Martineau  that  he  did  not  realize  how  he  had 
betrayed  himself  in  a  few  sentences.87 


278  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

His  battle  with  Benton  was  climaxed  when  the  burly  Missourian  in- 
sulted him  with  a  charge  of  falsehood.  Calhoun  spurned  it,  and  from  the 
Senate  floor  came  calls  for  order.  Smilingly  Mr.  Van  Buren  declined  to 
pronounce  Benton  out  of  order.  Webster  arose  to  Calhoun's  defense,  and 
appealed  to  the  Senate  from  the  chair's  decision.  Promptly  the  Senate 
voted — 24  to  20 — to  sustain  Webster  and  Calhoun.  By  nightfall  it  was 
all  over  Washington  that  Calhoun  and  Benton  would  fight  a  duel;  but 
to  Philip  Hone,  who  had  watched  proceedings  from  the  gallery,  it  would 
have  seemed  just  as  sensible  to  challenge  a  hyena  'for  snapping  at  me 
as  I  passed  his  den/  w 

Politically,  as  well  as  personally,  Calhoun's  friends  were  much  con- 
cerned for  him.  His  bitter  displays,  they  saw,  were  seriously  weakening 
him.  Occasionally  he  missed  a  Senate  session  to  visit  a  sick  friend,  and 
with  his  last  strength  this  man  pled  with  the  Carolinian  to  strengthen  his 
self-control.  'I  hear  they  are  giving  you  rough  treatment  in  the  Senate/ 
he  said  gently.  'Let  a  dying  friend  implore  you  to  guard  your  looks  and 
your  words  so  ...  no  undue  warmth  may  make  you  appear  unworthy 
of  your  principles.' 

Calhoun  was  deeply  touched.  'This  was  friendship,  strong  friendship,' 
he  told  Harriet  Martineau. 

A  few  days  later  the  friend  was  dead.  Once  again  Benton  struck  out 
at  Calhoun,  taunting  and  goading.  Calhoun  sat  silent,  breathlessly  tense 
but  motionless.  For  two  hours  the  harangue  continued.  At  last  Calhoun 
regained  the  floor.  He  arose,  lifted  his  head,  glanced  proudly  about  him, 
calmly  announced  that  his  friends  need  not  fear  his  being  concerned  at 
such  remarks;  then  quietly  picked  up  the  threads  of  his  argument  at 
the  exact  point  where  he  had  dropped  them.  'It  was  great!'  an  observer 
exclaimed.39  • 


These  were  the  years  when  Calhoun's  powers  as  a  speaker  reached  their 
full  flower.  And  in  an  age  of  great  orators,  Calhoun  was  the  most  original. 
He  was  not  eloquent,  as  the  eighteen-thirties  and  forties  viewed  eloquence. 
Against  Webster's  bombast  Calhoun's  taut  phrases  loom,  bare,  stripped, 
as  tree  branches  in  winter.  In  maturity,  as  in  youth,  his  style  was  'tense, 
crowded,  rugged,  hard  to  grasp  and  to  hold.'  His  words  were  well  chosen, 
showing  the  classical  discipline  of  his  early  studies,  'but  he  never  stopped 
to  pick  or  cull  them  in  the  midst  of  a  speech,'  and  his  diction  was  fre- 
quently attacked  as  'careless.'  *° 

He  cared  nothing  for  effect.  There  was  no  grace,  no  polish,  no  beauty  in 
those  'fierce  and  blunt  phrases'  of  his  later  years,  in  his  'oblique  question- 
ings/ and  'hard  reasoning.'  Once  he  had  taken  time  and  trouble  to  win 


THE  AGE  OF   JACKSON  279 

the  title  of  'the  most  elegant  speaker  who  sits  in  the  House/  41  but  not 
now.  Now  he  spoke  only  to  convince,  and  not  a  word  was  wasted.  In  an 
age  of  four-  or  five-hour  harangues,  studded  with  Latin  and  Greek,  Cal- 
houn  was  refreshingly  free  from  the  'Congressional  sin'  of  'making  ever- 
lasting speeches.'  He  seldom  spoke  more  than  an  hour,  and  then  in  short 
Anglo-Saxon  phrases,  flavored  with  slang  and  the  'most  unsparing  irony.7  42 

He  was  as  frugal  of  gesture  as  he  was  of  words.  Always  he  sought  to 
conserve  his  energy.  Usually  he  stood  rigid  in  the  central  aisle  of  the 
Senate,  bracing  himself  against  the  desks  on  either  side.  If  aroused,  he 
might  pace  restlessly  up  and  down.  Like  Webster  and  Clay,  he  was  by 
nature  an  actor;  almost  instinctively  he  knew  how  to  use  to  'great  effect7  his 
eyes,  his  body,  and  the  long  thin  hands  of  his  Scottish  heritage.  Physically 
his  magnetism  was  tremendous.  His  tall  figure  commanded  interest  from 
the  moment  he  arose  to  speak,43  and  only  Webster  equaled  him  in  his 
ability  to  hold  an  audience  in  hushed,  expectant  silence. 

His  dress  was  striking.  Ordinarily  he  preferred  boots  to  shoes,  and  in 
winter  always  wore  black,  topped  off  by  a  high  'beaver/  accentuating  his 
lanky  six-feet-two,  'George  Washington  and  I,'  he  would  laugh,  when  joked 
about  his  towering  length.44  In  summer,  as  well  as  in  winter,  Senate  custom 
demanded  the  same  costume  of  heavy  black  broadcloth;  but  in  summer, 
Calhoun,  alone  among  his  colleagues,  was  defiantly  and  comfortably  cool  in 
suits  of  thin  nankeen  cotton,  grown  and  manufactured  in  his  native  South 
Carolina.45 

10 

Although  Calhoun's  rapid  deliverer— averaging  about  a  hundred  and  eighty 
words  a  minute — made  him  one  of  the  most  difficult  of  all  Senate  orators 
to  report,  he  was  personally  a  popular  favorite  with  the  press  corps.  To 
them  he  was  not  only  good  'copy/  but  a  good  friend.  Newspapermen 
learned  to  watch  for  his  shaggy  head  and  tall,  stooping  figure  in  the  corri- 
dors of  the  Capitol,  where  he  paced  back  and  forth  on  rainy  days,  one  hand 
at  his  back,  the  other  gripping  a  huge  East  India  handkerchief.  Abstracted 
he  might  seem  to  the  casual  observer,  but  he  treated  the  reporters  with  a 
'frank,  engaging  courtesy/  which  disarmed  all  but  those  who  had  resolved 
not  to  submit  to  his  fascination.46 

His  friends  were  less  appreciative  of  these  interviews.  He  talked  'too 
much/  they  thought;  he  laid  himself  open  for  attack  or  hurt.  But  self- 
concealment  was  alien  to  Calhoun's  nature.  His  code  forbade  suspicion;  as 
he  said,  'I  would  rather  be  betrayed,  than  to  suspect  on  light  grounds/  47 

Yet  frank  as  he  was  on  political  matters,  his  private  life  and  his  private 
thoughts  were  carefully  shielded  from  view.  'I  am  willing/  he  once  said, 
'that  the  whole  world  should  know  my  heart.'  Yet  his  heart  was  what  he 
never  would  reveal,  and  this  innate  reticence  made  him  all  the  more  'an 


280  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

interesting  study/  not  only  to  his  friends,  but  especially  to  the  newspaper- 
men. Personal  details  of  the  great  held  a  keen  interest  for  them.  A  new 
note  had  appeared  in  Washington  journalism,  with  the  publication  of  such 
chatter  as  'I  know  that  Mr.  Webster  dined  the  other  day  at  the  White 
House  in  company  with  Isaac  Hill,  and  that  the  dishes  were  so  cooked  in 
the  French  style  that  neither  the  great  man  from  the  Bay  State  nor  the 
great  man  from  the  Granite  State  could  eat  much.  .  .  .  The  other  day  I 
saw  Mr.  Calhoun  and  Mr.  Clay  shake  hands  and  smile  complacently  upon 
each  other;  from  which  I  have  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Calhoun  is  trying  to 
conciliate  Mr.  Clay  and  bring  him  over  to  a  coalition  of  the  South  and 
West  against  the  North  and  New  England.  ...  I  know  that  Mr.  Calhoun 
is  a  very  fast  walker  and  a  very  fast  talker;  few  can  keep  up  with  him, 
either  in  the  one  or  the  other.' 48  Jackson's  America  wanted  to  know  how 
its  heroes  looked,  what  they  read,  whom  they  admired,  and  what  they  ate 
for  breakfast. 

Occasionally  the  press  corps  would  descend  to  even  more  intimate  mat- 
ters— Calhoun's  sexual  life,  for  instance.  That  his  personal  life  was  as 
pure  as  his  public,  his  worst  enemies  regretfully  conceded.  The  question 
was — why? 

It  was  a  far  from  fastidious  age.  Men,  cooped  up  seven  or  eight  months 
of  the  year  in  the  dreary  and  often  womanless  life  of  the  'messes/  were 
apt  to  become  momentarily  forgetful.  Pretty  diversions  in  spencers  and 
ruffled  petticoats  fluttered  their  eyelashes  on  every  street-corner,  stalking 
down  their  willing  prey  in  the  very  corridors  of  the  Capitol  itself.49  Cal- 
houn, his  intimates  knew,  'looked  on  all  selfish  and  sensual  appetites  as 
united  only  to  brutes,  or  men  who  have  made  themselves  so.' w  Yet  he,  who 
would  not  even  speak  to  one  whose  political  honor  was  in  question,  lived  in 
the  closest  personal  intimacy  with  such  men  as  Mississippi's  Poindexter, 
whose  open  profligacy  was  a  scandal  even  in  Washington,  where  sexual 
irregularities  were  the  rule  rather  than  the  exception.  Calhoun  was  utterly 
unshocked  and  uncritical  of  his  friends'  lapses  from  the  moral  code.  Only 
for  himself  he  held  no  tolerance. 

It  was  all  beyond  the  understanding  of  the  Washington  observers,  who 
cynically  ruled  out  of  their  conjectures  such  trivialities  as  love  or  loyalty 
in  marriage.  Was  it  merely,  as  Parton  insisted,  that  his  frail  physique  ex- 
empted him  from  'all  temptation  to  physical  excesses'?  Were  his  enemies 
right  in  sneering  that  he  was  'too  absorbed'  in  his  political  schemings  to 
have  energy  left  for  extra-curricular  activities?  Was  there,  wondered  Ben: 
Perley  Poore,  'more  of  the  intellectual  than  the  animal  in  his  nature,  or 
had  he  subjected  his  passions  through  discipline'?  And  on  these  interesting 
points,  not  even  those  who  knew  Calhoun  best  dared  venture  an  answer. 
Only  his  latter-day  correspondence  furnished  a  clue.  'Life,'  in  his  Cal- 
vinist  code,  'was  a  struggle  against  evil.'  Always  'stern  repression  and 
self-discipline7  were  necessary.51 


THE  AGE  OF  JACKSON  281 


11 

Calhoun's  only  happiness  now  was  centered  in  his  home.  His  Senatorial 
duties,  he  told  Anna  Maria,  were  nothing  but  'drudgery  and  confinement'; 
he  was  devoid  of  hope,  both  for  himself  and  the  nation.  'The  times  are 
daily  becoming  worse/  was  his  despairing  cry.  'God  knows  what  is  to 
become  of  the  country.3  62  Never  had  the  little  details  of  family  life  meant 
so  much  to  him:  Anna  Maria's  teaching  of  her  younger  brothers  and  sister, 
her  'little  scholars';  Floride's  gardening,  which  he  knew  would  mean  so 
much  to  'her  health  and  enjoyment';  young  Patrick's  'mechanical  genius/ 

'Give  my  love  to  all  and  particularly  to  your  Grandmother,'  he  would 
write  Anna  Maria.  'Give  me  as  much  .  .  .  news  as  my  old  friend  Dr. 
Waddel  would  in  telling  one  of  his  long  stories.  .  .  .  Tell  me  everything. 
.  .  .  God  bless  you  all.'  If  his  family  saw  the  number  of  letters  he  had  to 
write,  they  would  send  him  two  or  three  to  his  one. 

To  Floride  he  wrote  frequently,  but  her  answers  were  strangely  un- 
satisfying— 'on  grave  subjects  of  business,  or  ...  the  welfare  of  the 
family/  Often,  she  did  not  reply  at  all.  Scattered  through  his  letters  to 
Anna  are  numerous  references,  such  as  'Tell  your  mother  I  have  written 
her  several  times  without  hearing  from  her';  or,  'I  have  not  had  a  letter 
from  home  since  I  left,  tho'  it  has  been  a  week  since  my  arrival  here.'  He 
sent  Floride  his  speech  on  the  'deposite'  question,  but  there  was  a  wistful 
note  in  his  words  to  Anna  Maria,  that  he  supposed  she  would  not  trouble 
to  read  it,  as  she  took  'no  interest  in  such  things.' 

But  Anna  Maria  never  failed  him.  'Were  it  not  for  your  letters,'  lie 
wrote  her,  'there  are  a  thousand  incidents  that  are  daily  occurring  ...  of 
which  I  should  remain  ignorant.  .  .  .  Were  it  not  for  you,  I  would  not 
have  heard  a  word  about  the  Humming  birds  ...  the  vines,  their 
blooms,  the  freshness  of  the  spring,  the  green  yard,  the  children's  gardens 
.  .  .  those  little  .  .  .  details,  which  it  is  so  agreeable  to  an  absent  father 
to  know.'  ^ 

•  Physically  he  was  always  pent-up  in  Washington.  Wet  weather  denied 
him  the  exercise  essential  to  his  well-being,  and  his  thoughts  would  turn 
longingly  toward  the  beautiful  saddle-horse  he  had  purchased  in  1830, 
'the  best  animal  I  ever  mounted.'  He  feared  having  him  ridden  by  the 
boys,  or  anyone  'who  would  not  appreciate  his  gait,'  but  why  should  the 
horse,  too,  be  confined  because  his  master  was  away?  'He  will  be  idle  in  my 
absence,'  Calhoun  once  wrote  his  brother-in-law,  James,  'and  if  you  have 
not  one  that  suits  you,  you  will  be  welcome  to  him  till  my  return.'  ** 

'I  would/  was  his  wish  in  the  sultry  heat  of  a  Washington  summer,  'I 
could  be  at  home  and  enjoy  the  fine  peaches,  which  you  say  are  just 
coming  in.  You  say  nothing  of  the  Pears.  How  do  they  turn  out?'  Would 


2g2  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

Miller*  use  the  right  kind  of  leather  and  pegs  for  the  Negro  shoes? 
Would  Fredericks  *  see  that  the  manure  was  not  put  on  the  fields  until 
the  earth  was  'ready  to  receive  it 7  'You  must  find  your  occupation  de- 
lightful/ he  wrote  his  planter  brother-in-law,  James.  'I  almost  envy  you. 
As  long  as  I  have  been  in  publick  life  my  attachment  to  agriculture  is  not 
in  the  least  abated.  With  your  fine  plantation  and  various  pursuits  your 
time  must  be  fully  occupied,  and  pass  away  agreeably.' w 

Nevertheless,  the  cloud  over  his  days  was  lifting.  For  in  the  fall  of 
1835,  Anna  Maria  arrived  in  Washington. 

12 

Anna  Maria  was  not  beautiful.  Her  portraits  show  a  small  girl  with  dark 
eyes,  a  square  jaw,  and  a  long  and  incredibly  slender  waist;  but  her  few 
letters  which  have  been  preserved  radiate  wit  and  warmth  and  charm. 
Josiah  Quincy,  meeting  Anna  in  Washington  when  she  was  still  in  her 
teens,  marveled  at  the  way  she  could  present  the  Southern  cause  and  the 
ingenuity  with  which  she  parried  his  questions.  'I  have  rarely  met  a  lady 
so  skilful  in  political  discussion  as  Miss  Calhoun.' w  Close  companionship 
with  her  overintellectualized  father  had  brought  her  mind  into  harmony 
with  his;  and  like  many  Southern  girls  of  her  generation,  growing  up  in 
the  society  of  thinking  men,  her  education  had  come,  not  from  French 
novels  and  piano  tunes,  but  from  learning  to  think  for  herself.  From  her 
earliest  childhood  'the  idol'  of  her  father's  heart,  she  could  now  under- 
stand his  theories  and  aims,  and  he  took  real  pleasure  in  confiding  his 
problems  to  her.  'Of  course,  I  do  not  understand  as  he  does,'  she  told  her 
governess,  Miss  Mary  Bates,  'yet  he  likes  my  unsophisticated  opinion.5  57 
Actually  he  relied  upon  her  far  more  than  she  realized,  and  put  a  far 
higher  estimate  upon  her  mentality  than  she  did  herself. 

But  theirs  was  no  mere  intellectual  companionship.  She  entered  fully 
'into  the  spirit  of  his  life/  and  in  these  years  of  crisis  and  strain  he  turned 
to  her  constantly  'as  a  never  failing  source  of  inspiration  and  help.'  She  was 
more  than  his  daughter.  She  was  his  hostess  and  his  confidante — and,  above 
all,  his  friend.  Probably  he  never  loved  another  human  being  as  he  loved 
Aiina  Maria;  and  she  herself  admits  that  no  one,  'not  even  he/  knew 
what  he  meant  to  her.58 

With  such  intensity  of  feeling  between  father  and  daughter,  it  is  not 
surprising  that  Anna  Maria's  choice  of  a  husband  was  a  moody,  highly 
intellectual  farmer-statesman,  Thomas  Clemson,  mentally  and  tempera- 
mentally much  like  Calhoun  himself.  What  is  surprising  is  Calhoun's  atti- 
tude toward  the  affair.  Strong  as  his  love  for  Anna  Maria  was,  it  was 
neither  morbid  nor  possessive.  Needing  her,  as  he  would  never  admit  the 
need  of  any  other  person,  he  understood  Anna's  need,  too.  Far  from  re- 

*  Miller  was  the  Pendleton  cobbler;  Fredericks,  the  Fort  Hill  overseer. 


THE  AGE  OF   JACKSON  283 

senting  the  intruder,  he  merely  widened  the  scope  of  his  own  affections  and 
welcomed  Clemson  into  his  family. 

On  a  November  day  in  1838,  in  the  long,  sun-dappled  parlor  of  Fort 
Hill,  Calhoun  gave  his  daughter  away.  The  party  was  of  the  gayest;  the 
feasting  and  dancing  gave  the  up-country  neighbors  something  to  talk 
about  for  weeks.  Only  the  children's  governess  noticed  Calhoun  in  the 
background,  tugging  the  ornaments  off  one  of  the  wedding  cakes*  These  he 
later  wrapped  and  sent  to  a  child.59 


13 

Anna  Maria  had  returned  to  South  Carolina  a  year  previous  to  her  wed- 
ding. But  the  two  winters  she  had  given  her  father  had  wrought  a  change 
in  him,  remarkable  to  even  the  most  disinterested  observers.  Wanned  by 
her  sympathy  and  companionship,  his  taut  nerves  had  relaxed;  his  old- 
time  poise  and  self-command  had  begun  to  return.  Gallery  observers, 
terrified  by  his  imperious  manner,  his  flashing  eyes  and  compressed  lips, 
were  astounded  to  find  that  in  private  he  was  'the  mildest  of  enthusiasts,7 
and  if  questioned  about  nullification  could  take  it  'with  perfect  good 
humor/  almost  as  if  he  expected  to  be  misunderstood. 

The  recovery  of  his  self-control  in  private  was  having  a  marked  effect 
upon  his  influence  in  public.  Now  his  redirected  force  could  again  make 
itself  felt  upon  the  minds  and  emotions  of  men.  He  was  no  longer  the 
solitary,  defiant  leader  of  the  'lost  cause'  of  nullification.  On  the  'burning 
questions'  of  the  Bank  and  slavery,  Calhoun  had  found  new  issues,  and 
was  regaining  'a  considerable  following  „  .  .  throughout  the  South.'  Flock- 
ing under  his  banner  were  the  young  Southerners  and  Westerners  of  both 
parties,  who  saw  the  ominous  meanings  these  questions  held  for  their 
sections.  'He  is  now  one  of  America's  greatest  leaders/  Lord  Selkirk  wrote 
home,  and  if  he  were  any  judge,  would  soon  become  'the  most  important 
figure  in  American  politics.' w 

He  was  besieged  with  visitors.  Guests  might  find  him,  as  a  young  Ger- 
man count  did,  'stretched  on  a  couch,  from  which  he  arose  to  give  us  a 
warm  Southern  welcome/  He  would  immediately  introduce  'the  subject 
of  politics,'  explaining  his  theories,  'contrary  to  the  usual  American  prac- 
tise ...  in  the  most  concise  manner,  but  with  an  almost  painful  intensity.3 
His  face,  declared  one  visitor,  would  assume  'an  almost  supernatural  ex- 
pression; his  dark  brows  were  knit  ...  his  eyes  shot  fire,  his  black  hair 
stood  on  end,  while  on  his  quivering  lips'  was  'an  almost  Mephistophelian 
scorn  at  the  absurdity  of  the  opposite  doctrine.'  Then,  suddenly,  he  would 
snap  from  his  mood,  become  'again  all  calmness,  gentleness,  and  good 
nature,  laughing  at  the  blunders  of  his  friends  and  foes,  and  commencing 
a  highly  comical  review  of  their  absurdities.'  "• 

Calhoun  was  himself  again. 


XIX 

Slavery  —  The  Theory  and  the  Fact 


CALHOUN  was  born  into  the  system  of  slavery.  Patrick  Calhoun  had  fixed 
the  destiny  of  his  sons  the  day  that  he  rode  back  from  a  legislative  session 
in  Charleston,  with  Adam,  the  first  Negro  ever  seen  in  the  Carolina  up- 
country,  straddling  his  horse  behind.  Black  and  white  faces  together  had 
hovered  over  the  baby  Calhoun's  cradle.  All  his  life  his  memory  would 
go  back  to  the  woman  who  had  nursed  him,  to  Adam's  son,  Sawney,  who 
had  hunted  and  fished  with  him.  John  Calhoun  grew  up  to  know  the 
Negroes,  not  as  abstractions,  but  as  only  a  fanner  could  know  them  who 
had  plowed  in  the  'brilin'  sun/  with  the  black  man  at  his  side. 

Memories  of  the  system  were  woven  into  the  fabrics  of  his  day-to-day 
living.  Mornings  with  Sawney  in  the  spring,  when  the  wind  was  soft  and 
the  fishing  rods  light  in  their  hands.  Frantic,  last-minute  notes  from 
Floride,  reminding  him  to  bring  shoes  and  medicine  for  the  Negroes — a 
hectic,  last-minute  search  over  Washington,  swinging  himself  up  into  the 
stage  at  last,  with  the  bulky  package  under  his  arm.  A  Christmas  morning 
at  Fort  Hill,  when  he  had  called  young  Cato  in  to  dance,  the  shaking 
head,  the  feet  slapping  against  the  floor — and  at  the  end,  the  bewildered, 
almost  frightened  look  on  the  child's  face,  when  Calhoun  had  handed  him 
a  shining,  new  fifty-cent  piece,  the  first  coin  he  had  ever  seen.1 

His  bewilderment  when  the  black,  sleepy-eyed  Hector,  the  coachman,  ran 
away  cunder  the  seduction  ...  of  ...  free  blacks';  and  his  anger  when 
'Alick,'  the  only  male  house-servant  on  the  place,  gave1  them  'the  slip' 
when  Floride  threatened  him  with  a  whipping.2  And  never  would  he  forget 
that  swift,  stabbing  moment  of  terror  when  he  had  broken  the  wax  on  a 
letter  in  Floride's  small,  cramped  hand,  and  had  read  the  most  dreaded 
words  that  any  Southern  husband  and  planter  far  from  home  could  receive: 
that  the  Negroes  had  been  'disorderly,'  and  that  measures  must  be  taken 
to  bring  them  into  subjection.8 

Details  of  the  system  that  so  horrified  outsiders  were  as  natural  to  Cal- 
houn as  his  own  breathing.  Even  in  the  isolated  up-country  of  his  youth, 
he  might  occasionally  have  seen  the  tragic  spectacle  of  Virginia  Negroes 
being  herded  South  for  sale:  a  cart  of  five  or  six  children,  almost  'broiled 


XIX  SLAVERY — THE  THEORY  AND  THE  FACT  285 

to  sleep5;  a  cluster  of  women  stumbling  forward,  their  heads  and  breasts 
bare,  two  or  three  half -naked  men  'chained  together  with  an  ox-chain7; 
and  behind  them  always  the  white  man,  his  pistol  cocked.  Familiarity  with 
such  scenes  did  not  destroy  their  poignance,  however;  and  in  his  young 
manhood  Calhoun  found  consolation  only  in  his  belief  that  slavery  was 
'like  the  scaffolding  of  a  building,'  which,  when  it  had  served  its  purpose, 
would  be  taken  down.4 

In  his  youth,  too,  walking  along  the  Charleston  waterfront,  Calhoun 
could  have  caught  the  reeking  whiff  that  to  every  Southern  man  and  to 
every  Yankee  slave-trader  meant  only  the  horror  of  the  slave-ship.  He 
could  have  gone  aboard,  have  peered  into  that  black  hole  with  its  heat  and 
its  stench  that  no  white  man  could  describe,  have  seen  the  black  limbs 
flailing  and  coiling  like  snakes,  and  the  'torpid'  body  of  a  child,  crushed 
lifeless  against  the  ship's  side.  He  may  have  seen  the  black  flood  sweep 
from  the  hold,  pour  out  across  the  decks  of  the  ship,  men  and  women,  rabid 
and  fighting  with  one  another  for  a  drop  of  water;  or  falling  limp  beside 
the  rail,  'in  a  state  of  filth  and  misery  not  to  be  looked  at.' 5 

Whether  or  not  Calhoun  ever  endured  this  shattering  experience  is  un- 
known. It  is  probable  that  he  did.  The  changing  tide  of  economics  could 
later  make  him  acclaim  slavery  as  'a  good,3  but,  illogically,  it  never  quali- 
fied his  horror  at  the  'odious  traffic,'  deliberately  stealing  and  enslaving 
human  flesh.  As  a  Southerner,  he  was  sickened  and  ashamed  at  his  own 
accessory  guilt;  as  a  slaveholder,  and  conscious  of  no  crime  in  being  a  slave- 
holder,6 his  sincere  effort  was  to  see  that  the  slave-trade  was  not  only 
outlawed,  but  actually  abolished. 


Although  his  strict  conscience  was  untroubled  by  slaveholding,  it  did  force 
Calhoun  to  face  his  responsibilities  as  a  master  with  the  utmost  seriousness. 
'Every  planter,'  he  said,  'must  answer,  not  for  the  institution — for  which 
ie  is  no  more  accountable  than  the  fall  of  Adam — but  for  his  individual 
discharge  of  duty.'  His  ideals  were  high.  His  severest  critics  have  conceded 
that  he  was  a  'just  and  kind  master  to  his  slaves,'  and  an  English  guest  at 
Fort  Hill  noted  his  freedom  from  any  'vulgar  upstart  display  of  authority.' T 
Yet,  like  all  Southern  men,  he  was  capable  of  leaping  into  swift,  decisive 
action  when  circumstances  of  the  bitter  institution  demanded  it;  and  as 
we  have  seen,  in  one  or  two  instances  had  his  slaves  whipped  and  other- 
wise punished  if  their  misconduct  was  serious.  'A  perfectly  humane  man,' 
he  yet  knew  that  where  slaves  were  the  most  indulged,  they  were  the  worst 

servants.8 
'The  proper  management  and  discipline  of  Negroes,'  it  was  said,   sub- 


286  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 


jected  the  man  of  care  and  feeling  to  more  dilemmas,  perhaps,  than  any- 
thing he  could  find.7  9  For  plantation  Negroes  reflected  the  character  of 
their  owners.  Ignorant,  brutish,  and  degraded  slaves  could  usually  be 
traced  back  to  a  master  of  the  same  qualities.  As  late  as  the  eighteen-fif  ties, 
there  were  still  isolated  plantations  where  Negroes  could  be  found  with  no 
more  knowledge  of  civilization  than  when  they  had  come  out  of  Africa, 
fifty  or  sixty  years  before.  But  these  were  the  exceptions.  Real  as  the 
horrors  of  slavery  were,  Southern  leaders  insisted  that  cruelty  was  an 
abuse  and  not  a  part  of  the  system;  and  that  the  improvement  in  the 
condition  of  the  Negro  was  as  marked  as  in  that  of  any  other  laboring 
class.  'I  can  remember  how  they  were  forty  years  ago  —  they  have  im- 
proved two  thousand  per  cent/  a  Virginia  planter  told  the  Northerner, 
Frederick  Law  Olmsted.  They  are  treated  much  better,  they  are  fed 
better,  and  they  have  greater  educational  privileges.'  10 

To  sensitive  men  there  could  be  real  pleasure  in  treating  their  Negroes, 
not  as  animals,  but  as  human  beings  who  could  be  uplifted  and  developed. 
Such  a  master  was  Calhoun.  Aware  of  how  far  economic  interest  went  in 
compelling  masters  to  do  their  duty  by  their  slaves,  to  Calhoun  there  was 
another  equally  important  side.  'The  first  law  of  slavery/  said  Debow's 
Review,  'is  that  of  kindness  from  the  master  to  the  slave.'  u  Calhoun  sum- 
marized the  dual  ideal:  'Give  the  Planters  Free  Trade,  and  let  every 
Planter  be  the  parent  as  well  as  the  master  of  his  Slaves;  that  is,  let  the 
Slaves  be  made  to  do  their  duty  as  well  as  to  eat,  drink,  and  sleep  ;  let 
morality  and  industry  be  taught  them,  and  the  Planter  will  have  reason  to 
be  satisfied;  he  will  always  obtain  seven  or  eight  per  cent  upon  the  value 
of  his  Slaves;  and  need  never  be  compelled  to  the  distressing  alternative  of 
parting  with  them  unless  he  allows  them  by  overindulgence  to  waste  his 
substance.7  That  Calhoun  was  personally  devoted  to  many  of  his  Negroes, 
there  is  no  doubt.  To  his  friend  Maxcy,  he  wrote  his  sympathy  on  the 
death  of  a  servant  whose  'character  of  a  slave7  was  'in  a  great  measure  lost 
in  that  of  a  fine,  humble  indeed,  but  still  a  friend.7  Calhoun7s  main  hope 
for  his  slaves,  expressed  again  and  again  in  his  unpublished  correspondence, 
was  that  they  be  'well  and  contented.7  ** 

Just  how  many  slaves  Calhoun  owned  is  uncertain.  Estimates  run  all 
the  way  from  thirty  to  ninety,  and  the  truth  probably  lies  between  those 
figures.1*  Constantly  he  strove  to  mitigate  such  evils  of  the  system  as  he 
could.  His  son,  Andrew,  owned  a  plantation  in  the  hot  black  lands  of 
Alabama,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  Negroes7  health  and  efficiency,  the  two 
men  worked  out  an  elaborate  system  of  exchange.  Andrew  would  work 
the  slaves  for  six  months,  then  send  them  East  for  recuperation  in  the 
vitalizing  air  of  the  South  Carolina  foothills.  His  father,  meanwhile,  would 
have  a  second  group  rested  and  refreshed,  ready  for  another  siege  in  the 
tropics.  In  this  way,  too,  the  Negroes  were  kept  'in  the  family,7  which  to 
Calhoun  seemed  the  most  important  point  of  all,14 


XIX          SLAVERY — THE  THEORY  AND  THE  FACT  287 

Occasionally  Calhoun's  solicitude  for  Ms  servants'  family  ties  would 
exceed  those  of  the  Negroes  themselves.  Once,  when  he  was  sending  a 
family  of  house-servants  to  live  permanently  at  Andrew's  plantation,  a 
mother  rebelled,  and  declared  that  she  would  give  up  all  her  children  if 
only  she  could  stay  with  her  master  and  mistress.  Said  Calhoun:  'I  could 
not  think  of  her  remaining  without  her  children,  and  as  she  chose  to  stay, 
we  retained  her  youngest  son,  a  boy  of  twelve.' 15 


The  'quarters'  at  Fort  Hill — no  cluster  of  whitewashed  log  cabins,  but  a 
single  tenement  dwelling  of  stone — stood  just  past  the  great  barn,  about 
an  eighth  of  a  mile  from  the  'big  house.'  To  reach  them,  you  took  the  path 
from  the  office  down  the  lawn  to  a  tree-shaded  lane  which  wound  by  the 
barn,  on  the  left,  to  the  fields  and  hills  beyond.  In  a  shed  before  the  house 
steamed  a  kettle,  tended  by  an  aging  'Mammy,'  who  would  take  her  turn 
for  a  week  or  so  minding  the  children,  whose  round  black  heads  peered 
from  every  window.16  On  some  plantations  the  shouts  and  giggles  might 
fade  into  whispers  when  the  master  approached,  but  not  at  Fort  Hill.  Cal- 
houn might  awe  the  Senate,  but  he  held  no  terrors  for  children,  black  or 
white,  and  they  tumbled  about  his  feet,  unafraid.17 

From  the  pot  would  come  the  smell  of  vegetables  and  salt  meat,  for  each 
family  had  its  own  garden  patch  of  greens  and  yams,  corn  and  turnips, 
supplemented  by  allotments  of  meat  and  corn  meal.  On  some  plantations 
molasses  and  rice  were  also  distributed;  at  Fort  Hill,  the  specialties  were 
fresh  meat  and  'wheaten'  bread,  which  were  given  out  at  the  Christmas 
season.18 

Christmas  does  not  seem  to  have  meant  much  to  Calhoun.  Never  a  'pro- 
fessing Christian,'  his  letters  seldom  mention  the  day  at  all.  Away  from 
his  family,  he  had  no  heart  for  celebration.  But  at  home  he  could  not 
resist  the  holiday  spirit.  There  must  have  been  moments,  then,  when  he 
envied  his  servants'  capacity  for  sheer  physical  enjoyment.  A  fiddler 
mounted  on  a  dining  room  chair!  One  man  beating  a  triangle;  another 
drumming  on  wood!  A  plank  laid  across  two  barrel  tops  with  a  man  and 
woman  at  opposite  ends,  laughing  at  each  other.  The  shuffling  feet,  the 
twisting  bodies,  the  cries  to  the  pair  on  the  barrels:  'Keep  it  up,  John! 
Go  it,  Nance!  Ole  Virginny  never  tire!  Heel  and  toe,  ketch  a  fire!'  'The 
Negroes  had  a  merry-making  in  the  kitchen,  the  other  evening,'  Calhoun 
wrote  Clemson  in  1842.  '.  .  .  They  danced  in  the  kitchen  and  kept  it  up 
until  after  midnight.' " 


288  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 


Despite  Calhoun's  ideals  as  master,  slavery  at  Fort  Hill  was  more  typical 
than  ideal.  Fifty  years  after  his  death,  the  old  men  and  women  who  had 
been  boys  and  girls  in  the  eighteen-forties  could  remember  their  joy  when 
their  master  came  home.  Why  they  were  happy,  they  did  not  know;  all 
they  could  say  was,  'just  'kase  he  were  Marse  John  C.' 20 

Fifty  years  is  a  long  time,  long  enough  for  the  overseers  and  the  threat 
of  the  whip  to  be  forgotten.  Out  of  necessity  these  evils  did  exist  at  Fort 
Hill.  Calhoun  had  his  full  share  of  overseer  trouble.  Time  and  again  he 
was  compelled  to  change  overseers;  often  he  would  complain  that  they 
had  so  neglected  things  that  he  had  not  the  least  pleasure  in  looking  over 
the  place  upon  his  return  from  Washington.  'It  is  so  important  to  me/  he 
told  his  cousin,  James,  'to  have  everything  satisfactorily  arranged  before 
I  leave  home.' a 

Running  a  plantation  by  remote  control  bore  heavily  upon  both  master 
and  slave.  For  it  was  on  the  plantations  where  the  master  was  absent, 
and  the  overseer  had  full  sway,  that  many  of  the  worst  evils  of  the  system 
occurred*22 

Even  so  high-minded  a  master  as  Calhoun  was  compelled  to  follow  ex- 
isting practices  of  the  slave  system.  Punishments  were  necessarily  lighter 
for  a  Negro  than  for  a  white  man.*  A  killing  was  manslaughter;  rape 
was  merely  a  trespass.  A  few  idealists,  such  as  Jefferson  Davis,  introduced 
trial  by  jury  among  their  Negroes,  but  the  experiment  usually  failed. 
Punishments  would  be  too  severe.  'Africans  live  better  under  a  monarchy,3 
concluded  the  Church  Intelligencer?* 

Without  question  Calhoun  underestimated  the  mental  potentialities  of 
Negroes.  Living  completely  on  an  intellectual  plane  himself,  unable  even 
to  understand  white  men  on  a  lower  level  of  thought  than  his  own,  he  was 
honestly  convinced  that  physical  security  was  the  only  'freedom'  that 
would  have  meaning  to  a  slave.  Steeped  as  he  was  in  the  philosophy  of 
Aristotle,  he  could  not  have  felt  otherwise.  Had  not  Aristotle  differentiated 
between  the  injustice  of  slavery  based  on  'conquest'  and  'force  of  law/  and 
the  slavery  of  men  who  could  obey  reason,  but  were  unable  to  exercise 
it?  *  'Show  me  a  Negro/  Calhoun  is  reported  to  have  said,  'who  can  parse 
a  Greek  verb,  or  solve  a  problem  in  Euclid/  and  he  would  grant  that  he 
was  the  human  equal  of  the  white  man.  Strange  as  this  statement  is,  those 
who  judge  the  ante-bellum  slave  by  the  cultivated  Negro  leaders  of  the 
twentieth  century,  or  even  the  lovable  mammies  and  house-servants  of 
history,  can  have  no  concept  of  the  mental  and  moral  condition  of  the 

*  Except,  of  course,  when  the  crime  was  committed  against  a  white  man ! 


XIX  SLAVERY — THE   THEORY  AND  THE  TACT  289 

semi-savage  field  hands,  often  but  a  generation  removed  from  the  Congo.* 
Even  the  most  ardent  of  abolitionists  quailed  before  the  Negro  slaves  of 
the  lower  type:  Olmsted  once  declared:  'If  these  women  and  their  children 
after  them  were  always  ...  to  remain  of  the  character  and  capacity 
stamped  on  their  faces  ...  I  don't  know  that  they  could  be  much  less 
miserably  situated  ...  for  their  own  good  and  that  of  the  world,  than 
they  are.' M 

There  was  nothing  in  Calhoun's  personal  experience  to  alter  his  opinion. 
Once  he  had  freed  a  slave  shoemaker  and  his  family,  who,  cold  and  starving 
in  the  North,  returned  and  begged  to  be  taken  back  into  bondage.  'When 
I  told  him  that  I  would  do  all  I  could  for  him,  he  seized  both  my  hands 
in  his,  and  expressed  his  fervent  gratitude,'  *  Calhoun  told  the  story  after- 
ward. 

It  is  interesting  to  speculate  on  what  must  have  been  Calhoun's  opinion 
of  a  Northern  society  that  could  prate  of  freedom  and  send  starving 
Negroes  back  into  slavery.  Probably,  too,  the  incident  did  much  to  confirm 
Calhoun's  belief  that  to  the  slave,  as  to  many  white  men,  material  security, 
not  political  freedom,  was  the  more  important. 


Not  the  least  of  the  burdens  of  slavery  lay  upon  the  women  of  the  planta- 
tion. Men  could  sit  on  their  porches  and  argue  the  virtues  of  Aristotle  and 
the  leisureliness  of  the  Southern  way  of  life  by  the  hour,  but  women  had 
work  to  do.  Men  could  sleep  like  the  dead  through  the  black  hours  of  night, 
when,  at  a  terrified  whisper  and  a  damp  touch  on  her  shoulder,  a  woman 
roused  herself,  threw  a  tippet  over  her  nightgown,  and  hurried  down  the 
long  hall  to  the  family  dining  room  and  the  storerooms  beyond,  searching 
for  medicine  bottles  in  the  flickering  candlelight — or  for  a  Bible.  What 
did  men  know  of  that  endless  walk  to  the  quarters  at  two  or  three  in  the 
morning — with  that  frightened  figure  at  her  side,  the  ruts  and  rocks  that 
she  had  never  heeded  in  the  daytime  cutting  into  her  slippers,  and  the 
trees  looming  up  out  of  the  darkness?  And  then  the  long  hours  of  watching 
— the  slow  smoke  of  the  fire,  the  tossing,  feverish  sleep  of  a  sick  child,  or 
a  dying  man.  Men  had  the  responsibilities  of  slavery,  or  so  they  said,  but 
what  did  they  know  of  the  work  of  it?  ** 

Florida  knew,  and  for  her  the  day  was  long.  No  blessed  early  morning 

*  There  were,  of  course,  as  many  social  and  intellectual  gradings  among  the 
Negroes  in  their  native  Africa  as  among  any  people,  and  these  differences  were  re- 
flected hi  the  American  skves  and  their  relative  status  hi  the  slave-society.  As  with 
all  peoples,  the  ignorant  lower  classes  were,  of  course,  hi  the  majority;  and  many  of 
these  were  sold  to  traders  by  the  ruling  chiefs  and  aristocracy.  Individuals  of  higher 
type,  captured  as  prisoners-of-war,  were  often  included  hi  these  consignments. 


290  JOHN    C.    CALHOUN 

sleep  when  her  husband's  restless  stirring  roused  her  at  the  first  pale  light 
of  dawn.  While  he  was  off,  tramping  across  the  fields  for  exercise,  she 
would  dress,  seizing  a  few  precious  moments  of  leisure  to  last  her  through 
the  hours.  A  personal  maid  might  attend  her,  comb  out  and  arrange  her 
long  hair,  and  lace  her  stays  high  under  her  breasts,  perhaps  even  select 
her  dress,  for  there  were  slave  women  of  impeccable  taste,  existing  only  to 
wait  hand  and  foot  upon  their  mistresses.28  But  probably  no  such  paragon 
existed  at  Fort  Hill.  There  were  too  few  working  "hands'  for  the  daily  tasks 
to  be  easy  for  anyone. 

The  instant  breakfast  was  over,  work  began.  Floride  might  walk  down 
to  the  quarters  to  see  that  the  old  woman  in  charge  was  not  eating  the 
children's  share  of  food,  or  might  have  all  the  children  brought  up  on  the 
lawn  and  fed  before  her  own  eyes.29  She  might  stroll  down  to  the  chicken 
yard  and  listen  to  tales  of  'how  twenty-five  young  turkeys  had  just  tottled 
backward  and  died  so;  or  the  minks  and  chicken  snakes  had  sucked  half 
the  eggs';  or  it  'looked  like  there  weren't  no  chickens  that  didn't  have  just 
one  toe  nicked,  somehow.'  The  question  of  the  chickens  was  delicate.  Origi- 
nally each  Negro  family  on  the  place  had  its  own  hens,  marked  by  a  nicked 
toe.  The  Calhouns'  own  fowls  were  supposed  to  strut  through  their  brief 
life  span  with  toes  intact;  but  Floride  soon  noted  that  fewer  and  fewer 
chickens  were  surviving  mutilation  and  more  and  more  eggs  were  being 
brought  up  for  purchase  by  the  family.  Her  ruling  was  drastic.  Chickens 
were  banished  at  Fort  Hill,  except  for  the  exclusive  use  of  the  Calhouns 
themselves.30 

Inspection  over,  Floride  might  settle  herself  in  the  family  dining  room, 
or  on  whatever  porch  was  shadiest.  There  she  could  consult  with  Cook  to 
cmake  sure  ...  if  the  day  were  hot,  that  dinner  would  be  light  and  cool- 
ing'; broth,  fowl,  beefsteak,  perhaps,  with  salad,  asparagus,  claret,  good 
coffee — and  ice  on  the  butter-plates.  She  might  be  called  upon  to  umpire  a 
quarrel  between  little  Lafayette  and  Venus,  who  had  each  staked  claims  to 
the  same  dusting  cloth  and  halted  work  to  roll  their  eyes  and  make  faces 
at  each  other.  Uncle  Tom,  the  coachman,  would  peer  around  the  corner, 
requesting  the  key  to  the  storehouse  that  he  might  get  four  quarts  of  corn 
for  'him  bay  horse/  A  woman  would  shuffle  in  to  report  that  one  of  the 
hands  was  'fevered  and  onrestless';  and  Floride  herself  would  again  hurry 
to  the  storeroom  to  measure  out  the  inevitable  calomel,  and  then  to  hold 
the  head  and  slip  the  spoon  into  the  sick  man's  mouth,  for  no  slave  would 
take  medicine  from  the  hands  of  anyone  but  his  master  or  mistress.  Home 
again,  Floride  could  ring  for  a  girl  to  bring  her  pocket  handkerchief,  but 
five  minutes  later,  she  might  be  running  back  down  the  road  to  the  quarters 
to  attend  a  field  hand  who  had  gashed  his  foot  with  a  hoe.  She  knew  what 
she  would  have  to  do.  First,  she  would  tie  an  apron  over  her  dress;  then, 
with  'no  shrinking,  no  hiding  of  the  eyes/  she  would  calmly  examine  the 


XIX  SLAVERY — THE  THEORY  AND  THE  FACT  291 

injured  foot,  dripping  with  blood  and  sweat,  superintend  a  bath,  prepare 
a  healing  application,  and  bind  it  on  with  her  own  hands.31 

Did  Northern  women  spend  their  entire  Christmas  season  standing  in 
the  sewing  room,  a  pair  of  heavy  shears  in  their  hands,  cutting  out  dresses 
and  turbans  for  their  servants,  until  it  seemed  that  their  arms  and  backs 
would  break  in  two  for  weariness?  Northern  women's  joy  in  having  ser- 
vants to  answer  their  merest  whim  and  call  might  dimmish  when  they  dis- 
covered that  if  they  wanted  so  much  as  a  dress  pattern  cut,  they  would 
first  have  to  tell  the  slaves  how  to  do  it,  then  show  them  how,  and  finally 
do  it  themselves.32 


Figures  might  show  that  only  one-quarter  of  the  Southern  whites  belonged 
to  the  slaveholding  class.  Undoubtedly  the  South,  like  the  West,  would 
have  produced  an  agrarian  civilization  with  or  without  slavery.  Yet  year 
by  year  the  tendrils  of  'the  peculiar  institution'  were  entwining  themselves 
more  tightly  around  the  Southern  roots. 

Certainly  slavery  helped  keep  the  South  agrarian,  for  it  was  conceded 
that  to  change  the  Negro  over  from  a  farm  to  an  industrial  worker  would 
involve  a  process  far  slower  than  the  rapid  expansion  of  the  industrial 
system  had  been  elsewhere.  Slavery  forced  the  South  into  its  demand  for 
a  national  political  system  based  on  states'  rights;  for  otherwise  moralists 
in  a  nationalistic,  consolidated  government  would  have  felt  themselves 
legally  responsible  for  the  existence  of  slavery  in  South  Carolina.  Slavery 
was  the  Southerner's  school  for  statecraft.  It  produced  men  trained  to 
command,  a  breed  that  for  generations  controlled  over  two-thirds  of 
American  elective  offices.  But  the  strongest  effects  of  slavery  were  upon 
those  who  bore  its  burdens,  the  individual  Southerners  themselves. 

As  a  Southerner  and  a  leader  of  Southerners,  it  would  have  been  im- 
possible for  Calhoun  to  have  viewed  the  Negro  problem  in  the  abstract. 
Even  in  New  England,  where  he  tasted  the  first  theories  of  abolitionism,  he 
could  still  have  seen  the  last  few  Northern  slaves  walking  the  streets  of 
New  Haven.  He  knew,  if  the  North  forgot,  the  Northern  share  in  the  moral 
responsibility  for  the  system.  Still  jingling  in  Northern  pockets  were  the 
profits  of  the  slave-ships  and  the  proceeds  from  selling  the  Negro  South, 
upon  discovery  that  the  Northern  climate  and  labor  system  were  unsuited 
to  him. 

Slavery  was  an  economic  question.  Outsiders  looked  with  horror  on  the 
'forlorn  and  decaying'  villages  of  the  South,  on  Negro  cabins,  which  a 
Northern  laborer  would  'scorn  to  occupy  for  an  hour/  They  saw  the  worn- 
out  fields,  the  sagging,  empty  plantation  houses,  and  the  'poor,  degraded 


292  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

white  men  and  women/  with  neither  farming  incentive  nor  industrial  op- 
portunity under  the  slave  system.  The  mere  abolition  of  slavery,  concluded 
one  Northern  observer,  would  'whiten  those  .  .  .  abandoned  fields.'  ** 

There  was  nothing  in  history  to  prove  it.  Whether  slave  or  free,  there 
would  still  have  remained  in  the  South  a  huge  illiterate  population,  which 
might  be  productive  or  parasitical,  but  in  either  case  would  have  to  be 
provided  for.  Slavery  could  be  abolished;  the  problem  of  Negro  labor 
would  still  be  there.  Britain  had  abolished  slavery  in  Jamaica,  but  few 
of  the  f reedmen  had  chosen  to  work.  They  had  squatted  and  starved.  What 
of  the  great  plantations  of  Santo  Domingo,  now  sinking  back  into  wilder- 
ness and  jungle — the  planters  and  their  families  slaughtered  in  their  beds; 
the  former  slaves  wandering  now  in  poverty  and  exile — roaming — plunder- 
ing? Was  this  dark  fate  in  the  Southern  stars?  M 

Most  important,  could  the  Southern  economy  stand  the  financial  loss  of 
its  'largest  item  of  capital  investment'?  Or,  as  it  sometimes  seemed  to  the 
Southerners,  was  abolition  a  deliberate  Northern  trick  to  wreck  Southern 
prosperity,  to  reduce  the  Southern  agricultural  system  to  the  status  of 
prostitute  for  Northern  industry;  to  do,  under  the  semblance  of  outraged 
'morality3  what  Northern  exponents  of  high  tariffs  and  centralized  banking 
had,  so  far,  been  legally  unable  to  do  otherwise?  That  this  picture  was 
grossly  exaggerated,  if  not  entirely  false,  was  unimportant.  Not  the  fact, 
but  the  Southerner's  belief,  was  what  counted. 

To  Calhoun  slavery  was  a  practical  question.  The  Negro  was  the 
Southern  laborer;  slavery,  the  device  by  which  a  semi-civilized,  alien 
population  had  been  fitted  into  the  social  and  economic  pattern.  Not  the 
relationships  of  master  and  slave,  but  of  black  and  white,  was  what  the 
system  had  been  primarily  designed  to  regulate.  Had  slavery  not  existed 
in  the  ante-bellum  South,  and  had  the  black  race  been  suddenly  thrust 
upon  that  region,  undoubtedly  something  like  slavery  would  have  been 
created  to  cope  with  it.35 

Not  the  slave,  but  the  Negro,  was  uppermost  in  Southern  thinking.  Cal- 
houn had  thrashed  the  question  over  with  John  Quincy  Adams,  in  Missouri 
Compromise  days,  years  before.  'What  of  liberty,  justice,  the  rights  of 
man?'  Adams  had  demanded.  Did  the  Declaration  of  Independence  mean 
nothing  at  all? 

'The  principles  you  avow  are  just/  Calhoun  had  said  slowly.  'But  in  the 
South,  they  are  always  understood  as  applying  only  to  the  white  race.' 

Adams  was  silent.  Slavery,  Calhoun  had  persisted,  'was  .  .  .  the  best 
guarantee  of  equality  among  the  whites,  producing  an  unvarying  level 
among  them.'  Under  slavery,  no  white  man  could  dominate  another;  or, 
as  he  pointed  out  years  afterward,  'with  us,  the  two  great  divisions  of 
society  are  not  the  rich  and  the  poor,  but  the  black  and  the  white.' 

Adams  might  have  grunted  with  disgust.  Southerners,  he  charged, 
gloried  in  their  indolence,  were  proud  of  their  masterful  dominance. 


XIX  SLAVERY — THE   THEORY   AND   THE   FACT  293 

Calhoun  had  protested.  Slaveholders  were  not  lazy.  'I  have  often  held 
the  plough,  myself,  and  so  did  my  father.3  Mechanical  and  manufacturing 
labor  was  not  'degrading.'  But  if  he  were  to  hire  a  white  servant  in  South 
Carolina,  his  reputation  would  be  'irretrivably  ruined.' 36 


For  slavery  was  most  of  all  a  social  question.  What  the  system  actually 
meant  in  terms  of  mores,  tabus,  and  fears,  no  outsider  could  ever  under- 
stand. It  was  the  Negro  who  set  the  pattern  for  Southern  living  and  think- 
ing. If,  economically,  the  question  was  practically  unsolvable,  socially,  it 
was  even  more  so.  For  the  abolitionists  it  was  enough  to  blame  Southern 
backwardness  on  slavery,  to  attribute  the  Southerner's  overwrought  nerves 
to  the  fear  of  insurrection  and  retribution,  perhaps  even  to  the  guilty  con- 
science that  men  who  held  other  men  in  bondage  should  have.  But  a 
hundred  years  later,  the  South  was  just  beginning  to  emerge  from  its  back- 
ward, poverty-stricken  condition  as  'the  nation's  number  one  economic 
problem.'  It  was  eighty  years  after  the  abolition  of  slavery  that  David 
Cohn,  one  of  the  most  discriminating  of  Southern  thinkers,  would  describe 
the  sense  of  'strain'  in  the  Southern  air,  'of  a  delicately  poised  equilibrium; 
of  forces  held  in  leash.  Here  men  toss  uneasily  at  night  and  awake  fatigued 
in  the  morning.  ...  To  apply  patent  remedies  is  to  play  .  .  .  with  ex- 
plosives.'87 

The  most  ardent  Southern  admirers  could  not  deny  it.  The  most  cal- 
loused of  casual  observers  could  not  escape  it.  What  virtually  every  South- 
ern woman  admitted,  every  Southern  man  knew.88  There  was  no  peace,  no 
safety  in  the  Southern  states.  And  there  was  no  hope  for  escape. 

In  the  white  men  of  the  South  a  common  danger  had  wrought  a  common 
understanding.  Taut  nerves  ran  beneath  their  languid  indolence  of  pose 
and  gesture.  They  were  quiet  men,  those  fanners  and  planters  who  lounged 
through  long,  hot  afternoons  on  the  porches  of  plantation  houses  like  Fort 
Hill.  Drawling,  easy-going,  disarmingly  gentle,  they  might  appear  to  visi- 
tors like  Charles  Lyell  or  Captain  Marryat,  relaxed  under  the  spell  of  their 
hosts'  charm.  But  someone  would  unwittingly  utter  a  few  words,  and  dis- 
cover, to  his  dismay,  that  on  a  subject,  which  once  could  be  discussed  freely 
in  the  South,  not  a  word  could  now  be  said.  Men,  who  but  a  moment  before 
were  urging  'indulgence  to  their  slaves,'  flared  up  in  a  suddenly  'savage 
spirit,'  speaking  of  abolitionists  in  'precisely  the  same  tone  ...  as  beasts 
of  prey.'  Calhoun's  Congressional  colleague — short,  plump,  Northern-born 
Robert  Preston,  his  red  wig  askew— would  roar  that  if  any  abolitionist 
dared  set  foot  on  his  plantation,  he  would  'hang  him  .  .  .  notwithstanding 
all  the  interference  of  all  the  governments  of  the  earth.'  Another  soft- 
spoken  cotton  planter,  calmly  and  quietly,  but  unflinchingly,  would  an- 
nounce that  should  any  abolitionist  visit  his  plantation,  'I  have  left  the 
strictest  orders  with  my  overseer  to  hang  him  on  the  spot.' w 


294  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

'Fiercely  accessory'  was  the  poor  white,  tobacco-chewing,  sweat-stained, 
standing  on  the  porch  of  Fort  Hill,  confident  that  his  white  skin  alone 
assured  him  an  invitation  to  dinner.  Fear  was  the  uninvited  guest  at  his 
own  dinner  table;  he  would  hide  in  the  pigpen  at  the  rumor  of  an  insurrec- 
tion, and  in  a  back  corner  of  his  cabin  lay  bags  packed  for  the  quickest 
of  getaways  if  the  'Niggers  rose.'40 

Fear,  too,  haunted  the  clear-eyed  yeoman  hill  farmer,  who  worked  in  the 
field  beside  his  one  or  two  black  men.  'I  reckon  the  majority  would  be  right 
glad  if  we  could  get  rid  of  the  Negroes'  was  his  comment.  'But' — and  his 
words  were  fraught  with  meaning — 'it  wouldn't  never  do  to  free  5em  and 
leave  'em  here.' tt 

Free  them!  The  very  idea  was  enough  to  enrage  the  small  planter,  the 
middle-class  lawyer,  teacher,  or  doctor,  whose  ideals,  both  economic  and 
social,  were  closest  to  those  of  the  great  planters.  And  as  the  landed  planter 
might  add,  it  cost  nothing  to  attack  slavery,  but  he  could  not  listen  quietly 
when  outside  attacks  put  in  danger  'everything  we  hold  dear  in  the  world.' 

Calhoun's  sentiments  were  similar.  'We  are  surrounded  by  invisible 
dangers,  against  which  nothing  can  protect  us,  but  our  foresight  and 
energy.'  The  difficulty  was  in  'the  diversity  of  the  races.  So  strongly  drawn 
is  the  line  between  the  two  .  .  .  and  so  strengthened  by  the  form  of  habit 
and  education,  that  ...  no  power  on  earth  can  overcome  the  difficulty.' 42 
And  a  hundred  years  later  Cohn  would  write  of  'a  society  kept  going  by 
unwritten  and  unwritable  laws  .  .  .  taboos,  and  conventions.  .  .  .  The 
Southerner's  whole  society  and  way  of  life  is  conditioned  by  the  .  .  . 
Negro.  If  there  has  never  been  a  free  Negro  in  the  South,  it  is  also  true 
that  there  has  never  been  a  free  white  ...  the  Southerner  .  .  .  functions 
in  an  environment  of  which  he  is  a  prisoner  .  .  .  '  He  added:  'If  segrega- 
tion were  broken  down  by  fiat  ...  I  have  no  doubt  that  every  Southern 
white  man  would  spring  to  arms  and  the  country  would  be  swept  by  war,' 4S 

There  were  sensitive  men  who  writhed  under  sternness  and  the  rule  of 
fear,  who  felt  themselves  degraded  by  the  degradation  of  the  Negroes. 
When  administering  punishment,  they  were  tortured  by  the  thought  that 
'I  am  violating  the  natural  rights  of  a  being  who  is  as  much  entitled  to  the 
enjoyment  of  liberty  as  myself.'44  Torn  by  ethical  conflict,  they  were 
forced  to  repress  their  better  natures.  Continually  they  mourned  the 
brutalizing  effects  of  the  system  upon  their  children.  They  knew  that  it 
was  among  the  more  ignorant  white  classes  where  'coarse  .  .  .  brutal 
authority'  furnished  the  'disgusting'  picture  of  pretty  girls  laughing  as  a 
cowhide  whip  flicked  across  the  'nasty  mouth'  of  a  suffering  slave  child, 
where  'power  over  the  males  and  females'  was  'most  demoralizing.' 45  But 
year  by  year  more  of  the  poorer  classes  were  pulling  their  way  into  the 
slaveholding  hierarchy. 

The  most  well-meaning  of  men  were  helpless.  The  more  they  hated  their 


XIX  SLAVERY — THE  THEORY  AND  THE  FACT  295 

responsibilities,  the  more  heavily  they  weighed  upon  them.  'We  are  the 
slaves,  not  the  blacks,'  **  they  mourned.  Not  for  them  the  easy  way  of  the 
few,  who  solved  their  problem  by  turning  their  Negroes  'free'  to  starve  or 
to  beg  from  their  neighbors.  They  would  disdain  the  spirit  of  the  age,  the 
'judgment  of  the  world/  if  necessary,  rather  than  cast  the  dependent  race 
whom  they  were  'bound  to  protect'  upon  the  uncertain  mercies  of  Northern 
idealism. 

Financially  the  load  was  staggering.  There  were  the  'cotton  snobs'  of  the 
Delta,  so  drowned  in  acres  and  slaves  that  they  had  no  interest  in 
the  sliding  scale  of  their  bank  accounts.  But  no  man  could  fail  to  read  the 
tragedy  of  Virginia  in  the  worn-out  tobacco  lands,  exhausted  by  two 
hundred  years  of  crop  production  for  the  maintenance  of  slaves.  Slaves  had 
become  a  crushing  burden  on  the  poverty-stricken  Virginia  masters,  who 
had  to  feed  and  maintain  them  without  any  work  to  give  them.47 

All  knew  that  the  slave  system,  as  such,  gave  'the  least  possible  return 
for  the  greatest  possible  expense.'  In  hard  times  the  Northern  employer 
could  lay  off  his  hands  to  shift  for  themselves;  the  slaves  had  'complete 
insurance  against  unemployment/  and  had  to  be  fed  and  clothed  A  roan 
so  unlucky  as  to  own  a  drunkard  or  a  thief  was  forbidden  by  law  to  sell 
or  to  free  him.  He  was,  however,  guaranteed  the  duty  of  feeding  and 
clothing  him. 

With  no  possibility  of  discharge,  with  little  hope  of  advancement,  it  was 
to  the  Negroes'  interest  'to  work  as  little  as  they  can.'  Two  blacks  only 
do  the  work  of  one  white,  a  planter  told  Charles  LyelL  Half  the  South 
was  employed  in  watching  the  other  half.  Calhoun  himself  might  have  seen 
what  the  abolitionist  Olmsted  described — an  entire  field  of  women  halting 
work  when  the  overseer  had  passed,  only  lowering  their  hoes  when  he 
turned  to  ride  toward  them  again.48 

Yet,  save  for  a  scattering  of  yeomen  farmers  in  the  hill  counties  where 
a  black  face  was  never  seen,  the  most  difficult  of  all  tasks  would  have  been 
to  convince  the  average  Southerner  of  the  desirability  of  emancipation. 
Fear — economic,  social,  and  political — had  done  its  work.  Middle-  and 
upper-class  planters,  and  many  of  the  yeomen,  were  content  with  the 
system;  and  to  the  arguments  of  the  abolitionists,  not  even  the  poor  whites 
gave  'a  murmur  of  response.'  Hinton  Helper  could  marshal  proofs  that  the 
system  was  enslaving  planter  and  poor  white  alike,  but  not  even  he  could 
insure  the  farmer  from  the  competition  of  free,  and  cheap,  black  labor. 

Southern  whites  had  been  well  indoctrinated  with  the  less  savory  side 
of  Northern  industrialism.  'A  VERY  SLIGHT  MODIFICATION  of  the  arguments 
used  against  the  institutions  ...  of  the  South  .  .  .  '  Calhoun  had  said, 
'would  be  ...  equally  effectual  against  the  Institutions  of  the  North.' 49 
Southern  poor  whites  saw  no  hope  in  the  grinding  wheels  of  industrialism. 
Temporarily  industry  might  open  new  jobs,  but  as  more  machines  took  the 


296  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

place  of  men,  both  in  the  factory  and  on  the  farm,  the  day  would  come 
when  the  emancipated  Negro  and  the  white  workingman  would  grapple 
for  the  few  jobs  left  to  the  Southerners.  Labor-saving  machines  seemed 
well  named;  would  they  not  save  employers  the  necessity  of  hiring  labor? 
Hence,  it  was  to  the  interests  of  the  small  farmers — and  these  points  were 
stressed  again  and  again  by  their  leaders — to  co-operate  with  the  planter 
in  keeping  the  Negro  out  of  economic  competition,  and  in  preventing  in- 
dustrialism from  crushing  out  agriculture.  The  pernicious  competition  of 
the  slave-operated  plantations  against  the  small  independent  farmers  was 
less  obvious. 

More,  even,  than  economic  arguments,  the  abolitionists'  own  zeal  ripped 
the  problem  right  out  of  practical  politics.  As  late  as  1828,  there  were 
three  hundred  abolitionist  societies  south  of  the  Mason-Dixon  line.  As 
late  as  1831,  the  whole  slave  question  could  be  openly  debated  in  the 
Virginia  Legislature. 

It  is  undoubtedly  true  that  Southerners  talked  about  emancipating  far 
more  than  they  emancipated.  Yet  so  eminent  an  historian  as  Albert  J. 
Beveridge  has  argued  that,  had  it  not  been  for  the  anger  and  fear  aroused 
by  the  abolitionist  onslaught,  'it  is  not  altogether  impossible  that  there 
would  have  been  no  war,  and  that  slavery  would  in  time  have  given  way  to 
the  pressure  of  economic  forces.'  Allan  Nevins,  conceding  that  abolition, 
gradual  or  otherwise,  was  impossible  in  the  Deep  South,  pronounces  it 
'unquestionably  true  that  the  abolitionist  madness  helped  kill  all  chances 
of  gradual  emancipation  in  the  border  states  of  Maryland  and  Kentucky.' 
In  Fredericksburg,  Virginia,  an  active  movement  for  gradual  emancipation 
was  under  way  when  the  abolitionists  stepped  in.  The  ruin  was  complete. 
Less  than  a  decade  afterward,  not  a  single  emancipation  society  remained 
south  of  the  Mason-Dixon  border.50 

The  abolitionists  can,  at  least,  be  credited  with  skill  in  defeating  their 
own  purposes.  Not  for  them  the  tedious  processes  of  'gradual  emancipa- 
tion.' They  would  not  see  the  nation's  honor  stained  by  truckling  to  slave- 
holders through  federal  reimbursement  of  the  planters  for  the  losses  aboli- 
tion would  cause  them.  To  them  it  mattered  not  that  abolition  without 
compensation  would  wreck  the  entire  Southern  economy  and  leave  the 
planters  destitute.  To  them  the  sin  of  slavery  was  all  that  mattered. 

It  is  essential,  of  course,  to  keep  a  sense  of  proportion  in  judging  both 
abolitionist  and  slaveholder.  The  abolitionists'  zeal  was,  in  most  cases,  a 
sincere  and  high-minded  moral  force.  Yet  it  is  easy  to  understand  the  atti- 
tude of  those  who  were  daily  told  that  their  financial  security,  if  not  their 
very  lives,  depended  on  the  maintenance  of  a  system  which  the  individuals 
of  that  period  found  already  in  effect.  Human  nature  being  what  it  is,  and 
the  problem  as  complex  as  it  was,  the  Southern  attitude  toward  abolition- 
ists with  their  inexpensive  moral  zeal  can  be  readily  understood. 

^Emancipation,  itself,  would  not  satisfy  these  fanatics,'  declared  Calhoun. 


XIX  SLAVERY — THE   THEORY  AND  THE   FACT  297 

'That  gained,  the  next  step  would  be  to  raise  the  Negroes  to  a  social  and 
political  equality  with  the  whites.7  51  The  abolitionists  dared  not  deny  his 
words.  Early  as  1831,  incendiary  pamphlets  were  in  circulation  through 
the  Southern  states,  demanding  the  complete  political  equality  of  men, 
many  but  a  generation  out  of  Africa.  Openly  hot-tongued  zealots  were  call- 
ing upon  four  million  slaves  to  revolt  and  take  over  the  South  for  them- 
selves. 

Southerners  had  had  more  than  one  grim  foretaste  of  what  insurrection 
might  mean.  Fresh  in  memory  was  'bloody  Monday/  August  22,  1831, 
when  Nat  Turner  and  his  followers  ran  through  a  Virginia  county,  leaving 
a  trail  of  fifty-five  shot  and  murdered,  'but  without  plunder  or  outrage/ 62 
the  Liberator  commented.  And  at  Natchez  the  mass-murder  of  Santo 
Domingo  had  been  escaped  only  by  the  white  woman  who  overheard  a 
Negro  telling  a  nurse-girl  to  murder  the  child  in  her  charge.  Swiftly  the 
planters  organized.  Negroes  and  abolitionists  alike  were  rounded  up, 
strapped  to  tables,  and  lashed  with  blacksnake  whips  until  the  blood  fan 
inches  deep  upon  the  floor.  A  gigantic  plot  for  the  murder  of  every  white 
man  in  the  Natchez  district  and  the  enslavement  of  their  women  was  un- 
covered. Never  did  the  planters  breathe  easily  again. 

Abolitionists  could  attribute  Southern  tension  to  a  sense  of  guilt  in 
enslaving  the  Negro.  However  true  this  may  be,  Southern  recalcitrance  was 
at  least,  in  part,  the  work  of  the  abolitionists  themselves.  To  a  world 
arrayed  against  the  Southern  system,  no  weakness  could  be  admitted,  no 
word  of  concession  said. 


But  there  were  moments  when  the  whole  truth  was  spoken;  and  men  like 
those  who  gathered  with  Calhoun  at  Fort  Hill  strove  vainly  to  find  a  way 
through  the  mesh  in  which  they  had  entangled  themselves.  With  'one 
opinion  for  Congress,  and  another  for  their  private  table,'  they  discussed 
with  calm  reasoning  the  evils  *which  they  could  not  admit  in  public.3  w 
Although  a  man  known  to  abuse  his  slaves  was  punished  by  law  and 
scorned  by  his  neighbors,  all  knew  of  the  far-distant  plantations  in  the 
West  and  Deep  South,  which  the  law  and  public  opinion  could  not  reach. 
There,  in  a  murky,  fever-laden  heat,  where  white  men's  nerves  and  tem- 
pers were  drawn  to  the  breaking  point,  and  black  men  crouched  all  day 
in  ankle-deep  mud,  the  rawhide  coiling  over  their  backs,  slavery  existed 
*in  all  its  horrors.'  Dark  stories  seeped  in  from  those  swamps,  of  masters, 
intemperate,  reckless,  indulging  their  own  passions  on  the  helpless  crea- 
tures over  whom  they  held  power  of  life  and  death;  of  slaves  fed  on  cot- 
ton seed  or  hung  up  by  their  thumbs;  of  blood-stained  whips  as  much 


298  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

in  use  as  spurs  on  a  horse,  A  sadistic  master,  crazed  by  heat  and  the  power 
of  his  authority,  could  pull  out  his  Negroes'  teeth  or  cut  off  their  hands.54 
Generally  recognized,  except  in  the  North  itself,  was  the  fact  that  North- 
ern newcomers  were  responsible  for  many  of  the  cruelties  which  made 
slavery  notorious  in  the  eyes  of  the  civilized  world.  For  Northerners 
lacked  the  understanding  of  the  Negroes'  needs  and  weaknesses  as  in- 
dividuals. Northerners  looked  upon  the  South  as  a  fabulous  empire  of 
landed  estates  with  hundreds  of  acres  and  thousands  of  retainers;  South- 
erners knew  that  the  majority  of  slaveholders  owned  but  a  single  Negro 
family,  alongside  of  whom  their  owners  worked  the  fields.  Calhoun  had 
this  heritage.  He  knew  that  the  Negroes'  spirit  could  be  broken  by  lack  of 
sympathy  or  overwork;  and  furthermore,  that  in  the  fierce  heat  of  the 
Southern  sun,  neither  white  nor  black  could  expend  the  energy  of  a  worker 
in  the  North.  Northern  planters,  frequently  striving  for  'a  rapid  fortune,' 
made  no  allowances.  They  drove  the  Negroes  as  they  would  themselves, 
blamed  their  failure  on  the  system  of  slavery,  deserted  their  responsibilities, 
and  returned  North  to  'become  very  loud-mouthed  abolitionists.' 55 

Calhoun's  own  son-in-law,  Pennsylvania-born,  gave  up  planting  in  dis- 
gust, with  the  assertion  that  'I  can  do  better  for  my  family  and  myself 
,  .  .  than  .  .  .  spending  my  life  on  a  plantation.'  Calhoun,  however,  was 
shocked  by  Clemson's  proposals  to  rent  out  his  Negroes  at  a  profit.  Sternly 
Calhoun  reminded  him  that  with  rented  Negroes  it  would  not  be  to  the 
interest  of  the  planter  'to  .  .  .  take  good  care  of  them.  .  .  .  The  object 
of  him  who  hires,'  Calhoun  sternly  reminded  Clemson,  'is  generally  to 
make  the  most  he  can  out  of  them,  without  regard  to  their  comfort  or 
health,  and  usually  to  the  utter  neglect  of  the  children  and  the  sick/ 
Rather  than  have  them  thus  exploited,  if  Clemson  could  not  find  good 
masters  for  them,  Calhoun  would  buy  them  himself,  although  to  do  so 
would  be  'financially  disasterous' 5e  for  him. 

And  always  in  the  background  was  the  'disgusting  topic*  which  lay  like 
a  deadweight  on  the  conscience  of  every  thoughtful  Southerner — the  evil 
of  miscegenation.  That  it  existed  was  freely  admitted;  even  an  abolition- 
ist account  of  these  conditions  was  acknowledged  to  be  'full  of  truth/  Yet 
no  abolitionist  so  scourged  the  evil  as  did  the  Southerners  themselves.  No 
abolitionist  could  understand  the  feelings  of  fathers  who,  whatever  their 
own  youthful  follies,  lived  in  constant  fear  of  their  sons'  promiscuous 
intercourse  with  Negro  women.57 

Actually  the  evil  was  not  as  widespread  as  was  claimed.  For  where  the 
sins  were  confessed  in  the  color  of  the  progeny,  British  visitors  were 
astounded  to  find  that  the  'mixed  offspring'  in  the  Southern  states  of  ante- 
bellum days  was  'not  more  than  two  and  a  half  per  cent  of  the  whole 
population/  offering  a  comparison  by  no  means  favorable  to  their  free 
country.68  * 


XIX  SLAVERY — THE   THEORY  AND  THE  FACT  299 

To  an  unhardened  observer  the  slave-pen,  with  its  'likely  parcel7  of 
Negroes  for  sale,  on  the  very  spot  where  horses  and  cattle  had  been  auc- 
tioned off  the  day  before,  seemed  the  most  horrible  aspect  of  slavery.  Yet 
the  'calloused  indifference7  of  many  slaves  themselves,  'very  merry,  talking 
and  laughing'  as  they  waited  to  be  sold;  and  the  seeming  lack  of  'of- 
fended modesty'  was  equally  repellent.59  The  deepest  tragedy  of  slavery, 
however,  the  separation  of  husband  from  wife,  of  mothers  from  their  chil- 
dren, happened  less  often  than  Northern  visitors  believed.  Public  opinion 
condemned  it.  Families  were  sold  in  lots  'like  books  and  chairs/  but  few 
would  buy  a  broken-hearted  mother  without  her  children.  Fathers,  how- 
ever, were  sometimes  sold  from  their  families,  the  husbands  and  wives 
then  being  free  to  take  other  mates.60 

8 

Granting  the  desirability  of  emancipation,  argued  the  Southerner,  what 
was  to  be  done  with  the  Negro  after  he  was  free?  'Singular  is  the  con- 
tempt ...  in  which  the  free  blacks  are  held  in  ...  free  .  .  .  America/ 
observed  Captain  Marryat  in  1829.  Color  alone,  the  Captain  had  discov- 
ered, made  the  Negro  'a  degraded  being'  in  the  land  of  'liberty,  equality, 
and  the  rights  of  man.'  In  the  slave  states,  the  Britisher  had  'frequently 
seen  a  lady  in  a  public  conveyance  with  her  negress  sitting  by  her,'  and 
no  'objection  .  *  .  raised  .  .  .  but  in  the  free  states  a  man  of  colour  is 
not  admitted  into  a  stage  coach.'  Segregation  in  Northern  theaters  and 
churches,  Marryat  noted,  was  'universally  observed.' 61 

As  early  as  1820,  in  the  very  capital  of  'free'  America,  Congress  had 
restricted  suffrage  to  white  persons.  'The  crime  of  a  dark  complexion/ 
declared  William  Jay,  'has  been  punished  by  debarring  its  possessor  from 
all  approach  to  the  ballot  box.' 62  In  Philadelphia,  a  wealthy  Negro  pro- 
tested and  appealed,  but  was  found  to  be  only  white  enough  to  pay  his 
taxes.63 

Harshest  of  all  were  the  Northern  restrictions  against  education.  One- 
third  of  the  Southern  states  had  laws  prohibiting  the  Negroes  from  learn- 
ing to  read,  but  abolitionists  were  blissfully  indifferent  to  the  fact  that 
in  the  free  states  most  'academies  and  colleges'  were  barred  to  the  Negro, 
and  that  colored  children  were  'very  generally'  excluded  from  public 
schools,  in  deference  to  the  'prejudice  of  leaders  and  parents.'  Only  abroad 
could  wealthy  young  Negroes  receive  higher  education.  Connecticut  had 
its  Black  Act,  prohibiting  all  instruction  of  colored  children  from  other 
states.  In  New  Hampshire  enraged  citizens  of  Canaan  passed  resolutions 
of  'abhorrence'  at  the  establishment  of  a  subscription  school  with  twenty- 
eight  white  and  fourteen  Negro  students,  voting  that  the  building  be 
ripped  from  its  foundations.64 


300  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

Even  if  the  freed  Negroes  were  willing  to  work  for  wages,  what  chance 
would  they  have  with  the  'protection  afforded  by  their  present  monopoly 
of  labor  withdrawn,'  and  thrown  into  open  competition  with  the  poverty- 
stricken  whites?  When  a  Negro  laborer  was  hired  in  the  North,  his  fel- 
low workers  struck.  What  would  freedom  offer  the  Southern  Negro?  His- 
tory would  offer  the  answers. 

Actually  the  Negro  of  talent  sometimes  had  more  opportunity  for  self- 
realization  in  the  slave  states  than  in  the  free.  Southerners  could  point 
out  that  exceptional  Negroes  sometimes  made  'large  fortunes  in  trade/ 
Hired  out  as  cabinet-makers,  builders,  and  mechanics,  they  paid  a  part 
of  their  wages  to  their  masters  and  still  were  able  to  save  for  themselves. 
In  Memphis,  Thomas  Lowe  Nichols,  a  Connecticut  physician,  was  as- 
tounded to  find  a  slave  entrusted  with  the  sole  care  of  a  $75,000  jewelry 
store.  He  was  free  to  escape  at  any  time,  and  in  a  moment's  theft  could 
have  been  rich  for  life,  but  had  no  desire  to  break  trust.  In  New  Orleans, 
Dr.  Nichols  found  another  slave  the  head  clerk  of  a  leading  bookstore, 
waiting  upon  'the  ladies'  with  the  courtesy  of  a  Creole  courtier.  He  wore 
gold  studs  and  a  diamond  ring;  on  Sundays  he  made  his  'promenade'  on 
the  shady  side  of  Canal  Street,  with  a  young  slave  woman  in  a  gown 
of  costly  changeable  silk,  a  blue  bonnet  and  a  pink  parasol.  He  had  his 
seat  at  the  Opera,  too,  in  a  section  especially  reserved  for  'ladies  and 
gentlemen  of  colour/  where  no  common  white  trash  were  permitted  to 
intrude. 

Most  astounding,  a  slave  was  the  'head  clerk  and  confidential  business 
man'  of  one  of  the  largest  cotton  houses  in  New  Orleans.  In  New  York 
tinder  freedom,  he  might  have  been  a  whitewasher  or  a  barber,  or  perhaps 
have  run  an  oyster-cellar;  under  slavery,  he  had  his  own  home,  a  wife,  a 
family,  and  all  the  material  comforts  he  could  desire.  He  could  have 
bought  his  freedom  in  an  instant,  but  had  no  desire  to  do  so.65  Excep- 
tional as  these  instances  undoubtedly  were,  they  were  used  by  the  South- 
erners to  prove  that,  both  economically  and  socially,  even  a  slave  might 
rise  under  American  democracy. 

Northern  visitors,  however,  frequently  tempered  their  moral  indigna- 
tion with  telling  observations.  One  was  surprised  at  the  'friendly  relations' 
between  the  blacks  and  whites  of  the  South,  and  the  interest  and  kindli- 
ness shown  by  an  entire  trainload  of  white  passengers  toward  a  group  of 
Negro  railroad  workers,  en  route  home  to  their  families  for  Christmas.  'I 
constantly  see  ...  genuine  sympathy  with  the  colored  race,  such  as  I 
rarely  see  at  the  North,'  abolitionist  John  Abbott  was  compelled  to  admit. 
And  he  added  what  Dr.  Nichols  stood  vigorously  ready  to  confirm:  'The 
slaves  are  much  better  off  than  the  laboring  classes  at  the  North  .  .  .  the 
poor  ones.' w 

It  is  true,  of  course,  that  'compulsion  to  labor'  under  any  system  is  a 
violation  of  human  freedom.  But  what  was  freedom?  asked  the  defenders 


XIX  SLAVERY — THE  THEORY  AND  THE  FACT  301 

of  the  South.  What  was  slavery?  Freedom  held  a  high  meaning  to  Cal- 
houn.  To  him  it  meant,  not  just  the  absence  of  tyranny,  but  the  condi- 
tion which  would  allow  each  human  being  to  develop  to  the  highest  ends 
of  his  nature.  And  of  all  varieties  of  freedom,  in  the  opinion  of  Cal- 
houn, political  freedom  was  the  highest — and  the  most  rare.  It  was  the 
reward  for  centuries  of  striving  and  growth  and  unceasing  battle  against 
oppression;  what  would  be  its  fate  in  the  hands  of  those  unused  to  ex- 
ercising it?  The  white  man's  heritage  of  liberty  stretched  back  ten  hun- 
dred years;  for  untold  centuries  countless  Negroes  were  slaves  in  their 
native  Africa.*  Two  races,  almost  equal  in  numbers,  physically,  culturally, 
and  politically  at  variance,  faced  each  other.  Would  the  white  Southerner 
dare  entrust  his  freedom  to  the  black?  He  did  not  dare,  and  all  history, 
argued  Calhoun,  was  on  his  side.  The  safety  of  the  whole,  Aristotle  had 
warned,  depends  upon  'the  predominance  of  the  superior  parts.'  Calhoun 
conceded  that  once  the  slave  had  reached  a  state  of  moral  and  intellectual 
elevation,  it  would  be  to  the  master's  interest  'to  raise  him'  to  the  level 
of  political  equality,  for  he  would  then  'be  destitute  of  all  power'  to 
'destroy  liberty.'  Henry  Clay,  too,  spoke  for  the  whole  South.  'I  prefer 
the  liberty  of  my  own  race,'  he  said.  'The  liberty  of  the  descendants  of 
Africa  is  incompatible  with  the  safety  and  liberty  of  the  European  de- 
scendants. Their  slavery  forms  an  exception  .  .  .  from  stern  necessity, 
to  the  general  liberty.' w 

Calhoun  would  have  scorned  to  deny  that  Southern  servitude  was  slav- 
ery. But  with  equal  vehemence,  and  not  without  reason,  he  condemned 
the  'vicious  fallacy'  of  confusing  wage  labor  with  free  labor.  'I  like  to 
attend  to  things  as  they  are,  and  not  the  names  by  which  they  are  called/ 
he  said.  Carlyle  had  drawn  the  distinction.  'Free  labor  means  work  or 
starve.  Slave  labor  means  work  or  be  flogged.'  ** 

Even  more  bitter  was  the  British  Sarah  M.  Maury,  representative  of  a 
race  of  'freemen,'  whose  women,  stripped  to  the  waist,  crawled  through 
the  coal  mines,  butting  the  wains  with  their  balding  heads;  whose  chil- 
dren, 'harnessed  like  brutes  .  .  .  tugged  and  strained  in  the  bowels  of 
the  earth'  for  sixteen  or  seventeen  hours  at  a  time,  for  months  'never 
even  seeing  the  light  of  the  sun.'  Said  Mrs.  Maury:  'The  sole  advantage 
possessed  by  the  white  Slaves  of  Europe  ...  is  that  they  have  permis- 
sion ...  to  change  each  naked,  hungry  and  intolerable  bondage  for  a 
worse  .  .  .  this  the  white  man  must  call  liberty.'  ** 

Calhoun  did  not  call  it  so.  Liberty  held  higher  meanings  for  him  than 

*The  Southern  insistence  on  the  'superiority*  of  the  white  race  was  not  entirely 
rationalization  to  justify  the  slave  system;  but  was  based  on  an  utter  ignorance  of 
the  Negro  in  his  native  Africa.  It  was  not  the  truth  which  influenced  Southern 
thinking;  but  what  at  that  period  was  thought  and  reported  to  be  the  truth.  Twenti- 
eth-century research  has  uncovered  African  history  and  culture  which  was  utterly 
unknown  to  Calhoun  and  his  time,  and  which  might  have  made  a  vast  difference  in 
the  Southerner's  concept  of  the  slave's  intellectual  potentialities. 


302  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

freedom  for  men  of  superior  capacity  to  exploit  the  basic  inequalities  of 
their  fellow  men.  Was  it  not  more  just  legally  to  acknowledge  inequalities 
and  to  protect  men  from  the  selfishness  of  their  fellows?  Yes,  argued  Cal- 
houn,  the  Northern  wage  slave  was  free,  free  to  come  South  to  work  in 
the  pestilential  swamps  at  the  dangerous  tasks  at  which  the  life  of  no 
valuable  slave  could  be  risked;  70  free  to  hold  a  job  so  long  as  he  would 
vote  for  the  political  choice  of  his  employers;  free  to  work  fourteen  hours 
a  day  at  seven  dollars  a  week  until  his  health  gave  way.71  His  earnings 
were  taxed  to  provide  for  the  paupers  and  jail-loungers  whose  'freedom' 
permitted  them  the  luxury  of  not  choosing  to  work;  but  this  burden  did 
not  weigh  upon  the  Southern  slave.  'Slavery  makes  all  work  and  it  en- 
sures homes,  food,  and  clothing  for  all.  It  permits  no  idleness,  and  it 
provides  for  sickness,  infancy,  and  old  age.' 72  Both  systems,  he  insisted, 
rested  on  the  principle  of  labor  exploitation,  but  the  South  had  no  ugly 
labor  scrap-heap ;  the  master  was  compelled  by  law  to  mortgage  his  acres, 
if  necessary,  to  provide  adequately  for  old  and  sick  slaves.  The  master  was 
responsible  to  society  for  the  welfare  of  his  slaves;  no  one  was  responsible 
for  the  freeman  but  himself. 

The  paradox  was,  of  course,  that  slavery  for  the  Negro  restricted  the 
freedoms  of  the  whites.  Freedom  could  not  live  anywhere  in  a  slave  so- 
ciety. Free  speech,  for  example,  was  silent  on  one  subject,  slavery,  in 
accordance  with  one  of  the  strangest  gentlemen's  agreements  in  all  history. 
Even  of  Jefferson's  Virginia,  with  its  liberal,  humanistic  'free  trade'  in 
ideas,  Thomas  Ritchie  could  write  in  1832  that  there  had  been  a  'silence 
of  fifty  years.' 73 

Freedom  of  the  press  remained— on  the  books.  A  few  valiant,  fiery,  in- 
dividualistic editors  like  the  fighting  Quaker,  William  Swain,  of  the  Greens- 
borough  Patriot,  and  a  sprinkling  in  Kentucky,  Tennessee,  and  Western 
Virginia,  dared  denounce  slavery  to  the  end,  and  went  unscathed.  These 
were  the  exceptions.  Others,  less  fortunate,  suffered  boycotts,  cancellation 
of  subscriptions,  were  even  shot  down  in  duels!  By  1845  the  Richmond 
Whig  was  openly  praising  the  mob  destruction  of  an  abolitionist  paper  in 
Lexington,  Kentucky;  although  never  in  the  South  were  there  such  crimes 
against  the  press  as  the  lynching  of  Lovejoy  in  Illinois. 

'Letters  to  the  editor'  urging  abolition  of  slavery  were  returned  as  'too 
strong  for  the  times.'  Yet,  despite  the  pressures  of  wealth  and  vested  in- 
terests and  the  fears  of  the  poor  whites,  most  of  the  editors  'sincerely 
agreed  with  their  readers  on  the  slavery  question.'  The  'lives  of  the  free 
Negroes  in  Southern  communities'  they  saw  as  a  demonstration  of  their 
'unfitness  for  freedom.' 

In  Jefferson's  time  there  had  been  a  tolerance  toward  anti-slavery  doc- 
trines. Virtually  every  great  Virginian  of  the  eighteenth  century  was  on 
record  against  slavery.  At  twenty-one,  Henry  Clay  had  been  openly  urging 


XIX  SLAVERY — THE  THEORY  AND  THE  FACT  303 

gradual  emancipation  on  the  street-comers  of  Lexington,  Kentucky.  The 
Whig  planters  then,  and  even  later,  maintained  a  tolerance  on  the  ques- 
tion at  sharp  odds  with  the  newly  rich  planters  of  the  Democratic  persua- 
sion. And  in  the  early  years,  it  was  these  liberal  aristocrats  'whom  the 
common  people  followed.'74 


Restrictions  on  suffrage  were  declining  rapidly.  By  the  half-century  mark, 
47  per  cent  of  the  white  males  voted  in  the  lower  South  and  66  per  cent 
in  the  upper;  figures  comparable  to  those  of  47  per  cent  in  Massachusetts, 
67  per  cent  in  Pennsylvania,  and  62  per  cent  in  New  York.  And  far  from 
being  mere  planting  aristocrats,  the  'great  majority'  of  Southerners  were 
'hard-working  farmers  .  .  .  provincial  and  conservative,  but  hardly  more 
so  than  the  people  of  New  England  or  Pennsylvania.' 75 

Not  the  aristocratic  planting  society,  but  the  rise  of  the  common  man 
spelled  the  end  of  tolerance  on  the  slave  question  in  the  South.  Jacksonian 
democracy,  with  its  chants  of  freedom  for  the  masses,  only  clamped  the 
Negro  the  more  tightly  in  his  bondage.  With  the  extension  of  the  franchise 
came  contraction  of  thought.  The  newcomers  had  risen  too  rapidly  to 
assume  the  patina  of  a  mature  culture.  They  were  too  closely  allied  to 
the  lower  classes,  who,  cowering  in  hatred  and  in  fear,  were  'pro-slavery 
almost  to  a  man.'  And  as  slavery  was  the  economic  foundation  of  the 
planter  life  to  which  they  aspired,  they  countered  any  threat  to  the  in- 
stitution which  symbolized  their  goal.76 

What  was  the  tyranny  of  slavery?  Out  in  Illinois,  a  young  Whig  named 
Abraham  Lincoln  defined  the  tyrannical  principle  of  the  institution  as 
'You  work  and  earn  bread,  and  I'll  eat  it.' 7T  What  he  did  not  say  was 
that  the  principle  was  the  same,  whether  applied  to  the  agrarian  capi- 
talism of  the  South  or  the  industrial  capitalism  of  the  North;  and  that  the 
fact,  not  the  principle,  would  conquer  the  world  of  the  present  and  the 
future. 

Others  were  more  perceptive.  From  the  New  York  slums  rose  the  great 
rabble-rouser,  Mike  Walsh,  with  his  brassy  face  and  outthrust  jaw,  youth- 
ful, bitter,  rebellious.  Of  birthplace  uncertain,  of  parentage  unknown,  with- 
out money,  without  education,  Walsh  was  a  pioneer  of  the  slums,  as 
was  Jackson  of  the  wilderness.  For  the  first  time  Walsh  and  his  'Bowery 
b'hoys,'  were  to  sound  the  raucous  voice  of  the  city  streets  in  American 
politics. 

It  was  Walsh's  brawling  news-sheet,  The  Subterranean,  which  became 
the  first  political  organ  of  American  labor;  and  to  the  horror  of  the  abo- 
litionist idealists,  a  fervid  supporter  of  the  presidential  aspirations  of 


304  JOHN  C,   CALHOUN 

John  C.  Calhoun.  Incongruous  the  alliance  of  Southern  planters  and  city 
slum-dwellers  might  seem  to  outside  observers,  but  not  to  the  leaders 
of  the  two  groups.  If  Walsh,  like  Calhoun,  could  declare  that  the  salva- 
tion of  labor  depended  upon  the  preservation  of  slavery,  it  was  because 
he  and  Calhoun  each  realized  that  the  slaveholding  planters  formed  the 
last  barrier  against  the  protective  tariff  with  its  ominous  meanings  for 
agrarian  and  laboring  groups  alike. 

'Demagogues  tell  you  that  you  are  freemen.  They  lie;  you  are  slaves,' 7S 
was  the  shout  of  Walsh  to  his  oppressed  followers.  No  man  could  be  free 
who  was  dependent  only  upon  his  own  labor.  The  only  difference  between 
the  workman  and  the  Negro  slave  of  the  South  was  'that  .  .  .  one  .  .  . 
has  to  beg  for  the  privilege  of  becoming  a  slave.  .  .  .  The  one  is  the 
slave  of  an  individual;  the  other  ...  of  an  inexorable  class.'  Could 
the  abolitionists  produce  'one  single  solitary  degradation'  inflicted  on  the 
slave  that  the  Northern  laborer  did  not  suffer  under  'freedom'?  Men 
moralized  over  the  sufferings  of  the  poor  Negroes  in  the  South;  what  of 
thirteen  hundred  men  in  New  York  City  deprived  of  their  liberty,  only 
because  they  were  poor? 79 

Equally  disturbing  were  the  caustic  truths  of  the  impassioned  young 
preacher-editor,  Orestes  Brownson  of  the  New  York  Workingman's  Party. 
Six  feet  two  inches  tall  and  slender,  his  masses  of  dark  hair  thrown  back 
from  his  face,  Brownson  was  one  of  the  most  idealistic  of  the  idealists, 
one  of  the  most  intellectual  of  the  intelligentsia.  He  had  been  a  Baptist 
preacher,  an  admitted  agnostic,  a  dogmatic  Unitarian.  He  had  been  a  sup- 
porter of  Andrew  Jackson,  fighting  to  fit  the  'economic  equality'  of  the 
Jackson  program  to  the  political  liberties  of  the  Jeffersonians.  He  was  a 
slashing  stump  speaker,  drawing  roars  from  a  crowd  at  every  pause  for 
breath;  and  his  writings  were  acclaimed  by  Harriet  Martineau  as  nearer 
'the  principles  of  exact  justice'  than  anything  she  had  ever  seen.  Now  in 
the  Boston  Quarterly  Review  Brownson  lashed  out  against  the  hypocrisy 
of  those  who  would  draw  distinctions  between  the  two  American  capi- 
talistic systems  of  labor.  'Free  labor,'  he  asserted,  'deprived  the  working- 
man  of  the  proceeds  of  labor  most  efficiently.'  Wages  were  for  'tender  con- 
sciences .  .  .  who  would  retain  the  slave  system  without  the  expense, 
trouble  and  odium  of  being  slave-holders.  ...  If  there  must  always  be 
a  laboring  population  ...  we  regard  the  slave  system  as  decidedly  pref- 
erable.'8* 

Appeals  such  as  this  struck  terror  to  the  hearts  of  Northern  business 
leaders.  Actually  Calhoun  was  unable  to  enlist  any  serious  number  of 
Northern  liberals  and  Northern  laborers  in  his  cause;  but  the  psycho- 
logical effect,  just  like  the  psychological  effect  of  the  abolitionists  in  the 
<Soutfr,  was  what  counted.  Threats  of  abolitionism,  Calhoun's  followers 
coulct  match  with  threats  of  labor  unionism;  'chattel  slavery'  was  pitted 


XIX  SLAVERY — THE  THEORY  AND  THE  FACT  305 

against  'wage  slavery.'  If  the  North  was  a  threat  to  the  South,  so  did  the 
South  present  a  threat  to  the  North. 

It  was  not  to  be  borne.  Slavery,  a  cheap,  competitive  laboring  economy, 
could  be  tolerated  only  so  long  as  it  functioned  under  the  kind  of  tariff 
and  banking  legislation  that  would  profit  big  business.  And  it  was  Cal- 
houn,  with  'a  prescience  grown  by  now  almost  uncanny,' 81  who  saw  from 
the  first  that  slavery  alone  could  furnish  the  issue  which  would  unite 
the  idealistic  anti-slavery  forces  of  the  North  with  the  manufacturing  in- 
terests in  a  'moral'  crusade  against  the  Southern  economy. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait. 


10 

On  New  Year's  Day  in  1831  a  'pale,  delicate  .  .  .  over-tasked  looking 
man'  sat  down  at  a  pine  desk  in  a  dingy  room  in  Boston  where  ink  had 
splattered  the  tiny  windows,  while  from  a  corner  a  printing  press  roared 
and  shook  unceasingly,  to  read  his  own  words,  starkly  black  on  the  first 
page  of  the  first  issue  of  The  Liberator.  TLet  Southern  oppressors  tremble 
— let  all  enemies  of  the  persecuted  blacks  tremble.  ...  I  will  be  harsh  as 
truth,  and  as  uncompromising  as  justice.  ...  I  am  in  earnest  ...  I 
will  not  equivocate  ...  I  will  not  excuse  ...  I  will  not  retreat  a  single 
inch  .  .  .  AND  i  WILL  BE  HEARD/  On  the  seventeenth,THE  PICTURE  ap- 
peared, Garrison's  concept  of  a  slave  auction,  incorporating  in  one  sear- 
ing message  all  the  evils  of  the  years:  the  sign,  'Slaves,  horses,  and  other 
cattle  to  be  sold  at  12';  the  weeping  mother,  a  buyer  'examining  her  as 
a  butcher  would  an  ox';  the  cluster  of  dapper  young  men,  carefully  eyeing 
their  prospective  female  purchases.82 

Men  had  laughed  at  William  Lloyd  Garrison.  Calhoun  did  not  laugh. 
He  had  seen  it  all  as  early  as  1819,  when  he  had  turned,  startled,  at  John 
Quincy  Adams's  dogmatic  assertion  that  'If  the  Union  must  be  dissolved, 
slavery  is  the  question  upon  which  it  ought  to  break.'  Adams  was  weary 
of  a  Union  with  slaveholders.  Let  the  North  separate  from  the  South, 
he  had  suggested;  have  'a  new  Union  .  .  .  unpolluted  with  slavery  .  .  . 
rallying  the  other  States  by  ...  universal  emancipation.'  * 

Calhoun  had  agreed  with  Adams  that  emancipation  was  a  'great  ob- 
jective,' but  that  it  could  only  come  at  terrible  cost,  almost  a  revolu- 
tion. And  he  could  not  and  would  not  face  the  thought  of  disunion  'with 
all  its  horrors.' 83  The  abolitionist  agitation,  he  saw,  would  divide  the  sec- 

*  Oddly  enough,  twenty-three  years  later,  John  Quincy  Adams  presented  to  the 
Senate  a  petition  signed  by  the  citizens  of  Haverhill,  Massachusetts,  'for  the  adoption 
of  measures  peaceably  to  dissolve  the  Union.'  (See  Carl  Sandburg's  Abraham  Lincoln, 
The  Frame  Years,  Blue  Ribbon  Books,  New  York,  1926,  p.  183.) 


306  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

tions  with  hatred,  strike  at  the  heart  of  the  Union  both  from  the  North 
and  the  South.  If  the  Union  were  to  be  saved,  he  knew,  the  agitation  must 
be  halted — halted  by  the  insistence  and  the  unity  of  the  slaveholders. 

So  out  of  his  own  knowledge  and  his  own  forebodings,  Calhoun  bid  the 
South  to  'look  to  her  defenses.'  To  save  the  values  of  the  Southern  way 
of  life  within  the  Union  was  the  standard  he  raised;  and  to  save  these 
values,  the  Southern  people  must  unite  within  a  single  party  and  on  a 
single  issue.  A  unit  economically,  the  South  was  divided  politically  and 
socially,  with  the  majority  of  its  great  planters  members  of  the  Whig 
Party,  and  the  masses  still  followers  of  Jefferson  and  Jackson. 

Slavery  was  not  the  issue  Calhoun  would  have  chosen.  The  tariff  would 
have  united  both  the  South  and  the  West,  but  Jackson  and  nullification 
had  confused  the  people  on  that  question.  Slavery  would  be  the  hardest 
of  all  issues  to  defend,  but  it  was  the  one  the  North  had  chosen. 

Only  through  states'  rights,  through  complete  autonomy,  could  the 
South  hope  to  preserve  its  civilization.  Once  it  allowed  a  single  one  of  its 
institutions  to  be  subverted  by  pressure  from  the  outside,  the  ground  had 
been  surrendered.  Tt  was  not  so  much  abolition  to  which  Calhoun  ob- 
jected as  imposed  abolition.  Slavery  was  only  a  symbol,  the  most  inflam- 
matory of  symbols,  to  be  sure,  but  one  upon  which  the  whole  South  could 
stand  united. 

Calhoun  well  knew  that  the  very  ng,me  of  slavery  affronted  the  latent 
idealism  of  humanitarians,  not  only  in  the  North,  but  in  the  world  at 
large.  In  the  face  of  such  opposition,  even  an  orthodox  religious  defense, 
such  as  was  summarized  by  the  Reverend  John  C.  Coit,  Presbyterian 
clergyman  and  friend  of  Calhoun's,  was  not  enough.  The  Cheraw  pastor 
cited  chapter  and  verse.  There  was  no  moral  slavery,  he  contended.  Be- 
fore God,  Negroes'  souls  were  equal  with  whites'.  That  'slavery  is  against 
the  spirit'  of  Christianity,  Thomas  R.  Dew  might  insist,  but  the  clergy 
of  South  Carolina  would  not  concede  even  this.  How,  Coit  asked,  'could 
men  dare  follow,  not  the  letter  but  the  spirit?  Who  was  to  know  the 
spirit  but  through  God's  word?' ** 

Calhoun  went  beyond  the  Bible  for  his  defenses.  Slavery  could  no 
longer  be  termed  a  necessary  evil,  because  the  very  admission  of  evil  was 
a  concession  of  justice  in  the  Northern  point  of  view.  But  to  defend 
slavery  unitedly,  without  giving  hope  for  its  ultimate  extinction,  of  course 
involved  a  revolution  in  Southern  thinking.  To  bring  about  this  revolu- 
tion was  the  task  of  Calhoun's  mature  years.  He  was  incredibly  success- 
ful. If  slavery  was  the  bulwark  of  Southern  agrarian  civilization — as  Cal- 
houn contended  it  was — the  North  knew  now  that  the  South  could  not  be 
forced  into  abolition.  There  would  be  no  surrender.  From  Yale,  Calhoun's 
one-time  friend,  Benjamin  Silliman,  wrote  sadly  of  his  old  pupil's  vindica- 
tion of  'slavery  in  the  abstract.  He  ...  changed  the  state  of  opinion  and 


XIX  SLAVERY — THE  THEORY  AND  THE  FACT  307 

the  manner  of  speaking  and  writing  upon  this  subject  in  the  South/  leav- 
ing the  region  'without  prospect  of,  or  wish  for,  its  extinction.' S5 

To  rest  the  cause  of  the  South  upon  the  crumbling  foundation  of  Negro 
slavery  was  the  tragic  contradiction  of  Calhoun's  career.  With  him,  as 
with  all  Southerners,  it  was  an  emotional  error.  Far  from  being  void  of 
emotion,  Calhoun  was  'a  volcano  of  passion,'  and  it  was  this  which  gave 
him  such  a  hold  over  the  hearts,  as  well  as  the  heads,  of  the  Southern 
people.  He  felt  as  his  people  felt,  and  his  feelings  blinded  him  to  the  facts. 

Slavery  he  could  defend  with  reason,  but  could  not  view  with  reason. 
The  farsighted  prophet  who  detected  the  disastrous  results  of  the  pro- 
tective tariff  with  such  accuracy  was  the  same  short-sighted  Southerner, 
utterly  blind  to  the  financial  drain  of  slave  labor.  He  was  the  bigot  who 
defended  human  servitude  and  the  philosopher  whose  system  for  the 
protection  of  minority  rights  would  appear  to  many,  a  hundred  years 
after  his  time,  as  the  salvation  of  political  democracy.  The  dear-eyed 
statesman,  who  could  commend  Jefferson's  denunciation  of  the  Missouri 
Compromise  for  its  attempt  to  define  the  boundary  lines  of  slavery,  was 
the  same  broken  politician  who  by  1850  could  see  no  hope  for  the  country 
he  loved,  save  in  an  artificial  restoration  of  the  'equilibrium'  which  time 
and  history  and  geography  had  wrecked  forever;  an  incongruous  coupling 
of  the  agrarian  past  to  the  industrial  future. 

Yet  from  the  first,  Calhoun  had  seen  the  basic  issue:  that  the  triumph 
of  industrialism  would  bring  'misery  to  those  who  lived  on  the  land.'  That, 
logically,  he  knew  his  fight  to  be  hopeless  had  no  influence  upon  him.  Sus- 
tained by  his  sense  of  duty,  he  battled  the  very  future  whose  inevitability 
he  foresaw,  with  the  same  stubborn,  hopeless  courage  of  old  Patrick  Cal- 
houn in  his  war  with  the  Constitution.  'As  I  know  life,'  he  said  grimly, 
'were  my  head  at  stake,  I  would  do  my  duty,  be  the  consequences  what 
they  may.' M 


11 

This  was  the  background  to  the  war  that  opened  on  the  floor  of  the  Senate 
in  December,  1835,  never  to  end  until  the  last  'gentleman  of  the  South' 
had  left  the  Chamber  in  the  winter  of  1861.  What  could  be,  Calhoun  had 
understood  from  the  first.  What  would  be,  it  was  his  task  to  avert.  If  the 
abolitionist  agitation  continued,  he  was  convinced  it  would  rend  the 
Union  apart.  And  it  was  as  the  defender  of  the  Union,  not  of  slavery  alone, 
that  Calhoun  stood  in  the  Senate  Chamber  during  those  years  of  the 
eighteen-thirties  and  forties,  hurling  back  the  challenge  of  the  Northern 
states.  And  looking  on  that  taut,  erect  figure,  white  with  anger,  eyes  blaz- 


308  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

ing,  men  might  doubt  his  prophecies  and  conclusions,  but  never  his  convic- 
tion as  to  their  truth.* 

'I  ask  neither  sympathy  nor  compassion  for  the  slave-holding  States,' 
was  his  proud  declaration.  'We  can  take  care  of  ourselves.  It  is  not  we, 
but  the  Union  which  is  in  danger.  .  .  .  We  love  and  cherish  the  Union; 
we  remember  our  common  origin  .  .  .  and  fondly  anticipate  the  common 
greatness  that  seems  to  await  us.'  But,  'come  what  will/  he  warned,  with 
somber  prophecy,  'should  it  cost  every  drop  of  blood  and  every  cent  of 
property,  we  must  defend  ourselves.' 8r 

Strangely  enough,  it  was  not  Calhoun  but  Andrew  Jackson  who  opened 
the  abolitionist  fight  upon  the  Senate  floor.  Much  has  been  said  of  Jack- 
son as  the  great  friend  of  the  common  man,  and  of  Calhoun  as  the  great 
defender  of  the  landed  interests.  Yet  the  man  who  made  democracy  a 
vital  and  living  force  in  American  government  never  regarded  Negro  slav- 
ery as  a  violation  of  that  democracy.  Not  even  Calhoun  saw  the  threat 
of  abolitionist  agitation  any  more  clearly  than  Jackson,  nor  was  he  more 
capable  of  favoring  thorough  and  decisive  action. 

A  postoffice  fight  aroused  the  President's  wrath.  In  July,  183S,  the 
citizens  of  Charleston  raided  the  postoffice,  stole  and  burned  a  sack  of 
abolitionist  pamphlets;  then  named  a  committee  to  meet  with  the  post- 
master to  determine  what  material  could  not  be  delivered  in  the  city. 
The  Charleston  postmaster  promptly  notified  the  postmaster  in  New  York 
to  forward  no  more  abolitionist  material;  and  the  postmaster  in  New 
York  laid  the  matter  before  Amos  Kendall,  Postmaster  General  of  the 
United  States. 

Nullification  had  been  mild,  indeed,  compared  to  the  Administration's 
stand.  Jackson,  four  years  earlier,  had  flatly  proposed  that  abolition 
papers  be  delivered  by  Southern  postmasters  only  to  those  who  demanded 
them,  'and  in  every  instance  the  Postmaster  ought  to  take  the  names  down, 
and  have  them  exposed  thro  the  publick  journals  as  subscribers  to  this 
wicked  plan  of  exciting  the  slaves  to  insurrection  .  .  .  every  moral  and 
good  citizen  will  unite  to  put  them  in  Coventry.'  So,  with  the  full  back- 
ing of  the  President,  Kendall  declared  that  he  would  neither  direct  the 
postmaster  at  New  York  to  forward  the  incendiary  pamphlets  nor  the 
postmaster  at  Charleston  to  receive  them.  Even  higher  than  the  laws  of 
the  United  States,  declared  Connecticut-born  Kendall,  were  the  individual's 
responsibilities  to  his  home  community*  Meanwhile,  Jackson,  in  his  Mes- 

*  Calhoun's  opinions  on  slavery  underwent  little  change  from  1830  to  1850.  As  the 
aim  of  this  chapter  is  to  reveal  his  state  of  mind  on  the  entire  slave  question,  his 
quotations  hereafter  are  not  necessarily  arranged  chronologically.  A  question  current 
in  1837  he  might  have  discussed  again  more  fordhly  and  effectively  in  1848.  Through 
different  years,  he  might  present  three  or  four  sides  to  a  question  which  are  here 
consolidated  under  one  subject  head.  The  note  references  clearly  indicate  the  source  of 
the  different  quotations;  and,  of  course,  in  a  report  of  any  one  specific  speech,  this 
method  is  not  used. 


XIX  SLAVERY — THE  THEORY  AND  THE  FACT  309 

sage  to  Congress  the  following  December,  denounced  abolitionists  as  plot- 
ters of  a  civil  war  with  all  its  horrors,  and  recommended  passage  of  a 
measure  absolutely  excluding  the  circulation  of  'incendiary  publications 
intended  to  instigate  the  slaves  to  insurrection.7  8S 

The  howls  with  which  Northern  liberals  greeted  this  proposal  have 
long  since  been  forgotten  in  latter-day  liberal  veneration  of  Jackson.  Actu- 
ally this  proposition  was  too  much  even  for  Calhoun.  He  recognized  no 
'higher  law5  than  the  Constitution,  with  its  unmistakable  provisions  for 
freedom  of  the  press,  and  he  knew  that  if  he  were  a  party  to  its  viola- 
tion for  measures  that  would  benefit  his  own  people,  he  could  not  invoke 
its  protection  when  the  South's  rights  were  violated.  'Rights  and  duties 
are  reciprocal/  he  said.  Such  was  Calhoun's  stand,  but  there  were  those 
who  saw  in  it  more  than  abstract  principle.  President  Jackson's  support  of 
a  measure,  asserted  Senator  King,  was  enough  in  itself  to  assure  Senator 
Calhoun's  opposition.  Calhoun  protested  too  much.  CI  have  too  little 
regard  for  the  opinion  of  General  Jackson  and  ...  his  character,  too,  to 
permit  his  course  to  influence  me  in  the  slightest  degree.' 89 

Nevertheless,  it  was  Calhoun  who  moved  reference  of  the  President's 
Message  to  a  special  committee,  and  it  was  he  who  was  named  committee 
chairman.  On  February  4,  1836,  he  brought  in  a  report  declaring  freedom 
of  the  mails  essential  to  freedom  of  the  press,  and  that  Congress  could 
make  no  law  excluding  any  material  whatever  from  the  mails,  incendiary 
or  otherwise.  Instead,  he  offered  a  counter-proposal.  He  suggested  that 
federal  postoffice  agents  be  required  by  law  to  co-operate  with  state  and 
territorial  agents  in  preventing  circulation  of  incendiary  material  where 
such  material  was  forbidden  by  local  law;  and  that  local  officials  found 
guilty  of  violating  their  responsibilities  by  declining  to  examine  suspect 
'literature'  be  denied  the  protection  of  the  federal  government.90 

It  was  Henry  Clay  who  detected  the  fine-spun  fallacy  in  this  proposi- 
tion. If  Congress  had  no  power  to  exclude  abolitionist  documents  from 
the  mails,  he-  asked,  how  then  could  it  exclude  their  delivery  through  the 
mails? 

Yet  Calhoun's  proposition,  as  well  as  his  objection  to  the  President's, 
was  based  on  a  fundamental  constitutional  question.  Jackson  would  give 
the  national  government  the  power  to  regulate  the  mails;  Calhoun  would 
lay  on  the  servants  of  the  national  government  the  obligation  to  bow  to 
state  laws. 

The  debate  dragged  on  for  months,  ending  in  a  25  to  19  defeat  for 
Calhoun's  bill.  The  three-way  Southern  split  served  only  to  open  the 
way  for  the  Northern  opposition,  who  promptly  passed  a  measure,  pro- 
viding fines  and  imprisonment  for  any  postoffice  official  who  in  any  way 
prevented  any  material  whatever  from  reaching  its  destination. 


310  JOHN   C.   CAJLHOUN 


12 

Round  two  involved  the  abolitionist  petitions.  The  question  was  not  new. 
Long  agitated  in  the  House,  the  usual  practice  had  been  to  receive  the  pe- 
titions and  to  table  them  instantly.  But  this  was  not  enough  for  Calhoun, 
who  stubbornly  insisted  that  such  petitions  should  be  refused  from  the 
first.  Deliberately  he  was  forcing  an  issue  which,  it  must  be  admitted, 
many  of  the  more  moderate  slaveholding  groups  preferred  not  to  force 
at  all.  If  a  petition  could  term  slavery  'a  national  disgrace3  in  the  District 
of  Columbia,  why  could  it  not  be  so  termed  in  South  Carolina?  If  the 
South  had  the  constitutional  right  to  hold  slaves  at  all,  it  had  a  right 
to  hold  them  in  'peace  and  quiet/  Calhoun  argued.  The  fight  must  be 
waged  on  the  frontier;  for,  as  he  put  it,  'The  most  unquestioned  right  can 
be  rendered  doubtful,  if  it  be  admitted  to  be  a  subject  of  controversy.' 91 

Nor  was  it  a  violation  of  the  right  of  petition  to  refuse  to  receive  these 
'mischievous'  documents.  The  First  Amendment  merely  deprived  Con- 
gress of  the  power  to  pass  any  law  'abridging  ...  the  right  of  the  people 
...  to  petition  the  government.'  It  did  not  require  Congress  to  accept 
petitions,  Calhoun  contended.  Had  not  Jefferson  himself  ruled  that  be- 
fore petitions  were  presented,  their  contents  must  be  revealed  by  the 
introducer,  and  a  motion  made  and  seconded  to  receive  them?  Deprived 
of  its  right  as  a  deliberative  body  to  determine  what  to  'receive  or  reject/ 
Calhoun  argued,  Congress  would  become  the  passive  receptacle  of  all  that 
was  'frivolous,  absurd,  unconstitutional,  immoral,  and  impious.  ...  If 
a  petition  should  be  presented,  praying  the  abolition  of  the  Constitution 
(which  we  are  all  bound  ...  to  protect),  according  to  this  abominable 
doctrine,  it  must  be  received.'  If  the  abolitionist  societies  should  be  con- 
verted into  societies  of  atheists,  and  petition  that  a  law  be  passed,  'deny- 
ing the  existence  of  the  Almighty  .  .  .  according  to  this  blasphemous 
doctrine,  we  would  be  bound  to  receive  the  petition.' 92  If  Congress  was 
bound  to  receive  petitions  to  abolish  slavery,  why  then  could  it  not  abolish 
slavery  itself? 

Why  not  indeed?  Congress  listened.  With  Calhoun  few  would  even  at- 
tempt debate.  His  questions  went  unanswered.  Often  he  would  complain 
that  none  would  reply  to  his  charges.  But  not  until  Abraham  Lincoln 
would  America  produce  a  man  to  answer  from  first  principles  arguments 
based  on  first  principles.  To  such  a  man  Calhoun  would  have  listened 
with  respect,  but  to  no  other. 

13 

On  December  27,  1837,  Calhoun  took  the  Senate  floor.  The  resolutions 
that  he  introduced  flung  the  issue  right  in  the  teeth  of  the  Constitution, 


XIX  SLAVERY — THE  THEORY  AND  THE  FACT  311 

the  North,  and  the  Senate  itself.  They  were  far  from  watertight,  either  in 
logic  or  practicality.  As  Benton  said,  they  were  'abstract,  leading  to  no 
result;  made  discussion  where  silence  was  desirable,  frustrated  the  de- 
sign of  the  Senate  in  refusing  to  discuss  the  abolition  petitions/  and  pro- 
moted the  very  agitation  their  author  deplored. 

They  were  penned  in  sheer  desperation.  An  attack  on  slavery  anywhere, 
declared  Calhoun,  was  an  attack  on  slavery  everywhere,  an  argument  true 
enough  in  the  abstract,  but  scarcely  possible  for  a  states'-right  advocate 
validly  to  support.  For  if  'intermeddling'  by  the  citizens  of  one  state 
with  the  domestic  institutions  ...  of  the  others7  violated  state  sov- 
ereignty, how  then  could  it  be  'the  duty'  of  the  federal  government  'to 
give  increased  security'  to  'domestic  institutions'?  If  slavery  could  not  be 
threatened  without  a  violation  of  state  sovereignty,  how,  then,  could  it 
be  protected?  9S  Calhoun  was  caught  in  the  net  of  his  own  logic.  Many 
of  his  detractors  now  saw  that  if  the  South  could  only  mind  its  business 
by  interfering  with  the  business  of  the  North,  then  slavery  was  intoler- 
able.94 Were  Northerners  free  only  to  criticize  the  laws  of  Massachusetts, 
but  not  those  of  South  Carolina?  Was  it  possible  for  the  government  to 
give  increased  security  to  liberty  in  Connecticut  and  to  slavery  in  Georgia? 

But  Calhoun's  feelings  were  too  wrought  up  for  any  possibility  of  clear 
thinking,  even  in  his  lucid  brain.  'Is  the  South  to  sit  still  and  see  the  Con- 
stitution .  .  .  laid  prostrate  in  the  dust?'  he  demanded  furiously.95  Had 
the  Alien  and  Sedition  Laws  been  defeated  by  'sitting  still  and  quoting 
the  authority  of  the  Constitution'?  Yet  he  chided  Anna  Maria  for  her 
conclusion  that  it  would  be  'better  to  part  peacably  at  once  than  to  live 
in  the  state  of  indecision  we  do.'  He  knew  'how  many  bleeding  pours  [sic] 
must  be  taken  up  in  passing  the  knife  of  seperation  [sic]  through  a  body 
politick  (in  order  to  make  two  of  one).'  Although  admitting  that  'we 
cannot  and  ought  not  to  live  together  as  we  are  ...  exposed  to  the  con- 
tinual .  .  .  assaults'  of  the  North,  he  was  resolved  that  'we  must  act 
throughout  on  the  defensive,  resort  to  every  possible  means  of  arresting 
the  evil,  and  only  act,  when  .  .  .  justified  before  God  and  man  in  taking 
the  final  step.'  *  Yet  he  had  long  known  that  difficult  as  it  was  'to  make 
two  people  of  one/  if  'the  evil  be  not  arrested  at  the  North,'  the  South 
would  take  the  initiative.  'I,  for  one,'  Calhoun  declared,  'would  rather 
meet  the  danger  now,  than  turn  it  over  to  those  who  are  to  come  after  us.' 9T 

Day  after  day,  speech  after  speech,  his  words  poured  on.  There  were 
those  who  saw  no  danger  to  the  Union  in  the  violation  of  its  most  sacred 
principles,  but  only  in  the  words  of  those  who  dared  foretell  the  danger. 
'If  my  attachment  to  the  Union  were  less,  I  might  .  .  .  keep  silent.  .  .  . 
It  is  a  cheap  and  .  .  .  certain  mode  of  acquiring  the  character  of  de- 
voted attachment  to  the  Union.' w  But  he  saw — and  he  would  speak. 

'They  who  imagine  the  spirit  now  abroad  in  the  North  will  die  away 
of  itself  .  .  .  have  formed  a  very  inadequate  concept  of  its  real  charac- 


312  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

ter.  .  .  .  Already  it  has  taken  possession  of  the  pulpit  ...  the  schools 
.  .  .  the  press/  He  had  no  patience  with  Senators  who  saw  in  the  aboli- 
tion-disunionists  nothing  but  a  'mere  handful  of  females/  interested  only 
in  abolishing  slavery  in  the  District  of  Columbia,  while  'they  openly 
avow  they  are  against  all  slavery.' " 

What  were  the  facts?  Fifteen  hundred  abolitionist  societies  with  an  aver- 
•  age  of  a  hundred  members  each,  increasing  at  the  rate  of  one  a  day,  'hun- 
dreds of  petitions,  thousands  of  publications  .  .  .  attacking  $900,000,000 
worth  of  slave  property  and  .  .  .  the  .  .  .  safety  of  an  entire  section  of 
this  Union  in  violation  of  ...  pledged  faith  and  the  Constitution.  .  .  / 
And  yet,  we  are  told,  'if  we  would  keep  .  .  .  cool  and  patient,  and  hear 
ourselves  and  our  constituents  attacked  as  robbers  and  murderers  .  .  . 
without  moving  hand  or  tongue,  all  would  be  well.'  10° 

'We  are  reposing  on  a  volcano!'  Calhoun  shouted.  The  present  genera- 
tion would  be  succeeded  by  those  taught  to  hate  the  people  and  the  in- 
stitutions 'of  nearly  one  half  of  this  Union,  with  a  hatred  more  deadly 
than  one  hostile  nation  ever  entertained  towards  another.' 101  Gone  would 
be  'every  sympathy  between  the  two  great  sections,'  their  recollections 
of  common  danger  and  common  glory.  The  abolitionists  were  'imbuing 
the  rising  generation  at  the  North  with  the  belief  that  ...  the  institu- 
tions of  the  Southern  states  were  sinful  and  immoral,  and  that  it  was 
doing  God  service  to  abolish  them,  even  if  it  should  involve  the  destruc- 
tion of  half  the  inhabitants  of  this  Union.' 102 

'It  is  easy  to  see  the  end.  .  .  .  We  must  become  two  people.  .  .  .  Abo- 
lition and  the  Union  cannot  co-exist.  As  the  friend  of  the  Union  I  ... 
proclaim  it.3 103 

Bitterly  he  ridiculed  the  belief  of  the  North  that  'slavery  is  sinful,  not- 
withstanding the  authority  of  the  Bible  to  the  contrary.'  There  was  a 
period,  he  reminded  the  Senators  with  sarcasm,  'when  the  Northern  States 
were  slave-holding  communities  .  .  .  extensively  and  profitably  engaged 
in  importing  slaves  to  the  South.  It  would  ...  be  ...  interesting  to 
trace  the  causes  which  have  led  in  so  short  a  time  to  so  great  a  change.' 

What  was  the  Northern  concept  of  liberty?  Once  it  was  thought  that 
men  were  free  who  lived  in  constitutional  republics.  Now  all  non-slave  gov- 
ernments were  free,  'even  Russia  with  her  serfs.  .  .  .  The  term  slave  .  .  . 
is  now  restricted  almost  exclusively  to  African  slavery.'  Products  of  the 
Hindus  and  the  serfs  were  declared  free-made,  and  enjoyed  as  the  products 
of  freedom.  'To  so  low  a  standard  has  freedom  sunk.' 104 

In  Northern  idealism  he  saw  nothing  but  sheer  fanaticism.  The  spirit 
of  abolition  was  nothing  more  than  that  'blind,  fanatical  zeal  .  .  .  that 
made  one  man  believe  he  was  responsible  for  the  sins  of  his  neighbor,  that 
two  centuries  ago  convulsed  the  Christian  world'  and  'tied  the  victims 
that  it  could  not  convert  to  the  stake.  .  .  .' 105 

Why,  he  asked,  did  the  individual  Northerner  feel  himself  responsible 


XIX  SLAVERY — THE   THEORY   AND  THE   FACT  313 

for  slavery?  Simply  because  our  government  had  become  nationalized  in- 
stead of  federal,  'the  States  .  .  .  like  counties  to  the  State,  each  feel- 
ing responsibility  for  the  concerns  of  the  other/  Since  the  Force  Bill 
passage,  in  practice,  the  United  States  had  become  'a  consolidated  govern- 
ment.' His  resolutions  were  'test'  questions,  involving  the  whole  theory 
of  the  federal  system.106 


14 

Calhoun  won  his  battle — on  paper.  With  the  specter  of  actual,  practical 
nullification  removed  from  public  view,  the  Senate,  at  least,  was  quite 
willing  to  approve  the  nullification  doctrines,  and  pass  five  out  of  six  of 
Calhoun's  resolutions,  with  little  material  alteration.  Whether  or  not  the 
public  would  have  granted  such  approval  is  another  matter. 

But  Calhoun  was  not  content,  even  with  pledging  the  faith  of  the  fed- 
eral government  toward  the  maintenance  of  slavery.  His  added  determina- 
tion was  to  secure  the  safety  of  the  'domestick  institution'  under  inter- 
national law. 

Since  1830,  three  American  ships,  the  Creole,  Enterprise,  and  Comet, 
traveling  to  and  from  Latin  American  ports,  had  been  held  with  their 
cargoes  of  slaves  by  British  authorities.  Since  1830,  Presidents  Jackson 
and  Van  Buren  had,  in  Calhoun's  words,  'been  knocking — no,  that  is  too 
strong  a  term — tapping  gently  at  the  door  of  the  British  Secretary,  to 
obtain  justice.' 

Now  Calhoun  demanded  action.  Again  he  resorted  to  resolutions,  in 
the  bitter  words  of  Adams,  'imposing  his  bastard  law  of  nations'  upon  the 
entire  Senate,  which  bowed  to  his  will  without  a  dissenting  vote.  Ameri- 
can property  rights  had  been  violated,  was  his  contention.  Under  the  law 
of  nations  those  vessels  'were  as  much  under  the  protection  of  our  flag* 
as  if  anchored  in  their  home  ports.  Yet  England  declared  the  slave  that 
touched  British  soil  to  be  thenceforth  free.  Calhoun,  with  thoughts  of  India 
and  Ireland  bitter  in  his  mind,  could  sneer  at  British  distinctions  between 
property  in  persons  and  property  in  things.  He  could  warn  that  'it  would 
ill  become  a  nation  that  was  the  greatest  slaveholder  ...  on  ...  earth 
— notwithstanding  all  the  cant  about  emancipation — to  apply  such  a  prin- 
ciple in  her  intercourse  with  others.' 107  The  British  government  was  ob- 
durate. The  greatest  maritime  power  on  earth  had  refused  to  admit  that 
slavery  was  recognized  by  the  law  of  nations,  and  thus  declined  the 
mutual  consent  upon  which  all  international  law  rests. 

Actually  England  did  release  one  of  the  vessels  and  its  human  cargo. 
But  the  brig,  Enterprise,  which  docked  after  slavery  was  abolished  in  the 
Empire,  was  never  returned.  And  in  1841  Britain  gave  freedom  to  the 
slaves  who  had  seized  the  brig,  Creole,  after  killing  the  master  in  a  mu- 


314  JOHN   C.    CAI/HOUN 

tinous  uprising.  Calhoun  was  left  to  the  empty  victory  of  having  com- 
mitted the  Senate  to  the  stand  that  a  'domestick  institution'  was  recog- 
nized by  international  law;  and  to  the  equally  empty  satisfaction  of 
seeing  Secretary  of  State  Daniel  Webster  appeal  impotently  to  Calhoun's 
resolutions  in  his  negotiations. 


IS 

That  emancipation,  gradual  or  otherwise,  would  have  been  extremely  dif- 
ficult— almost  impossible — by  1840  is  undeniable.  Yet  had  Calhoun 
joined  with  Henry  Clay,  for  instance,  in  trying  to  work  out  a  transitional 
system;  had  he  devoted  the  same  time  and  thought  to  a  possible  solu- 
tion that  he  did  to  his  defense  of  slavery,  his  claims  upon  the  gratitude  of 
his  country  would  be  far  greater. 

For  the  South  the  issue  would  then  have  been  fought  in  clear-cut  terms. 
For  a  South  sincerely,  if  hopelessly,  attempting  to  struggle  from  the  morass 
that  engulfed  her,  the  world  would  have  had  true  sympathy.  Against  her 
still  would  have  been  ranged  the  spirit  of  industrial  expansion,  the  spirit, 
perhaps,  of  the  entire  modern  world,  but  not  the  outraged  moral  idealism 
of  the  nineteenth  century.  The  North  would  have  lost  its  issue;  and  slav- 
ery would  not  have  obscured  fundamentals. 

This  Calhoun  did  not  see.  Not  for  him  the  easy  way  out  of  Henry  Clay, 
who  could  wash  his  hands  of  personal  responsibility  by  comforting  dona- 
tions to  a  pipe-dream  such  as  the  American  Colonization  Society.  Cal- 
houn had  too  much  intellectual  honesty  to  salve  his  conscience  with  lip- 
service  to  ideals  that  denied  the  facts.  Boldly  and  honestly  he  faced  slav- 
ery as  a  fact  and  not  as  a  theory.  Not  his  own  conscience,  but  the  dilemma 
of  the  South,  was  what  tortured  Calhoun.  Historians  have  shown  how, 
with  pitiless  clarity,  Calhoun  saw  the  doom  of  his  people  under  the 
reaped  whirlwind  of  abolitionist  agitation,  but  did  not  see  that  a  logical 
doom  may  not  necessarily  be  an  inevitable  doom.108  Although  history 
would  prove  him  tragically  right  in  his  somber  conviction  that  abolition, 
superimposed  by  the  North  would  wreck  the  South;  he  could  not  see 
that  slavery,  as  such,  was  not  basically  essential  to  the  South;  and  that 
gradual  emancipation  by  the  South  itself  would  have  been  another  matter* 

To  instinctive  Jeffersonians,  such  as  Calhoun  was,  the  dilemma  was 
more  than  intolerable.  Grimly  aware  of  the  inequalities  of  man,  Cal- 
houn and  his  followers  were  compelled  to  reduce  Jefferson's  philosophy 
to  the  realities  of  their  own  time.  Why,  if  Jefferson  believed  in  emancipa- 
tion, had  he  waited  until  his  deathbed  to  free  his  own  slaves?  What  if 
Jefferson  had  lived  until  the  slave  system  was  so  deeply  rooted  in  the 
Southern  soil  that  its  immediate  extrication  would  mean  destruction  of 
the  entire  Southern  economy;  until  attempts  at  enforced  abolition  from 


XIX  SLAVERY — THE  THEORY  AND   THE  FACT  315 

the  North  had  ruled  out  all  hopes  of  voluntary  abolition  from  the  South? 
Jefferson  had  died,  haunted  with  the  hopelessness  and  fear  that  was 
creeping  like  a  blight  across  the  Southern  people.  It  is  easy  to  condemn 
Calhoun  for  the  stain  on  his  otherwise  brilliant  career;  yet,  if  he  had 
no  answer  for  the  most  tragic  human  problem  of  his  time,  neither  had 
Thomas  Jefferson. 


XX 

Floride 


FLORIDE  was  lonely. 

Standing  alone  on  the  north  portico  of  Fort  Hill,  her  eyes  moved 
across  the  garden  and  park  to  the  forests  and  mountains  beyond.  To  Cal- 
houn,  she  knew,  those  blue-misted  hills  meant  peace,  freedom,  all  that 
he  longed  for  in  his  months  in  Washington.  To  her,  they  were  the  walls 
of  a  prison.  She  knew  this  country;  she  had  spent  her  vacations  here  as 
a  child.  But  somehow  she  had  never  imagined  the  emptiness  of  these 
winter  months  when  the  people  of  Charleston  were  gone.  .  .  . 

These  raw-boned  hiU-countrymen  were  not  her  people;  they  were  proud 
of  Calhoun;  he  was  one  of  them,  but  they  looked  askance  at  his  'foreign' 
wife.  They  stared  with  cold  suspicion  at  her  little  Episcopal  church  in 
Pendleton.  They  did  not  build  white  columns  on  their  porches  nor  plant 
magnolias  in  the  yard.  Theirs  was  the  same  sturdy  stock  that  had  bred 
Daniel  Boone  and  Davy  Crockett;  there  were  cousins  of  Andrew  Jack- 
son's among  them;  and  their  anger  flared  when  they  heard  how  Floride 
had  laughed  at  Rachel  Jackson's  corncob  pipe.  As  one  of  them  said:  'We 
.  .  .  wouldn't  stand  for  a  Charlestonian  making  fun  of  our  kin.' l 

In  the  course  of  time,  biographers  would  come  to  accept  the  marriage 
of  Floride  and  Calhoun  as  ideal.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  far  more  real 
than  ideal.  Despite  his  'sweet  temper,'  Calhoun  had  his  full  share  of  faults 
as  a  husband.  And  with  the  one  exception  of  Mary  Todd  Lincoln,  there  is 
no  more  baffling  or  stormy  figure  among  all  the  historical  American  wives 
than  Floride  Calhoun.  There  is  no  doubt  that  in  his  own  way  Calhoun 
deeply  loved  her,  although,  as  we  shall  see,  there  were  trials  to  overcome. 

Did  Floride  return  his  affection?  There  is  no  actual  evidence  that  she 
did  not,  but  not  a  line  remains  to  show  that  she  did.  For  this  omission, 
Calhoun  himself  may  have  been  responsible.  One  historian  has  asserted 
that  Calhoun  deliberately  destroyed  his  personal  correspondence  'for  the 
express  purpose  of  keeping  it  from  the  prying  eyes  of  biographers.' 2  The 
fact  that  he  saved  Thomas  Clemson's  impersonal  communications,  but 
that  nearly  all  of  Anna  Maria's  charming  notes  have  disappeared,  would 
substantiate  this.  And  the  three  Floride  letters  that  escaped  destruction 
reveal  almost  nothing. 


XX  FLORIDE  317 

Complete  certainty  of  his  wife's  affections  seems  to  have  been  some- 
thing Calhoun  never  had.  From  the  first  months  of  their  marriage,  he  was 
complaining  that  he  had  received  so  few  letters  from  Floride,  although 
he  had  written  her  so  many.  He  would  write  two  'within  a  few  days';  he 
would  dream  of  her  at  night;  his  correspondence  is  threaded  with  messages 
like  one  to  Anna  Maria:  'Say  to  your  Mother  I  will  write  her  in  a  few 
days;  and  that  I  have  not  received  a  single  line  from  her  in  return  to  the 
letters,  which  I  have  written  since  I  left  home/  *  s 

Was  Floride  perhaps  pushed  into  marriage  with  Calhoun?  Her  mother 
was  a  dominant,  if  not  a  domineering  woman.  She  herself  had  scorned  to 
mate  with  the  inbred  aristocracy  of  Charleston.  She  had  sensed  Calhoun's 
latent  genius,  almost  before  he  was  aware  of  it  himself.  He  had  purpose 
and  drive  and  fire;  she  loved  him  as  a  son,  and  sought  him  as  a  son-in-law. 

But  Floride  was  born  into  a  romantic  age  and  a  romantic  life,  and  in 
her  teens  was  seeking  romance.  The  dark,  intense,  good  looks  of  Calhoun's 
youth  may  have  had  a  potent  appeal  to  more  objective  femininity,  but 
to  Floride  there  could  have  been  little  romance  about  him.  He  had  been 
the  'big  brother'  of  the  household,  hearing  her  Bible  lessons,  telling  her 
to  be  'a  good  girl/  sending  his  love  to  'the  children.'4  There  had  been 
that  strange  current  of  affection  between  him  and  her  mother;  she  was 
old  enough  to  have  felt  it,  although  she  could  not  have  known  what  it 
meant.  He  could  talk  to  her  mother  as  he  would  to  a  man;  would  he  ever 
speak  so  to  her?  Would  he  ever,  except  in  the  first  flush  of  courtship,  look 
upon  her  as  more  than  a  child? 

She  was  too  young.  Calhoun  was  twenty-nine  the  year  of  their  marriage, 
nearly  eleven  years  older  than  she  and,  mentally,  much  more  than  that. 
Modern  science  has  revealed  how  serious,  emotionally  and  physically,  such 
a  difference  of  age  can  be.  Calhoun  was  a  mature  man,  settled  and  self- 
assured.  Almost  from  his  wedding  day  romance  seems  to  have  left  his 
mind.  Floride  was  not  his  sweetheart.  She  was  the  keeper  of  his  home,  the 
mother-to-be  of  his  children.  For  almost  from  her  wedding  night  she 
was  pregnant. 

Life  was  hard  for  Floride.  During  their  first  year  Calhoun  was  sep- 
arated from  her  for  three  months.  During  the  second  year  he  was  nine 
months  away.  All  during  their  first  six  years  of  marriage,  the  difficult  years 
when  they  should  have  been  growing  together,  they  were  growing  apart. 
They  should  have  been  ironing  out  their  differences;  instead,  they  were 
developing  their  individualities.  They  had  their  separate  roles;  hers,  the 
Victorian  'sainted  wife  and  mother';  his,  the  scholar,  the  leader,  the  man- 
of-affairs.  They  were  thrown  back  upon  themselves,  becoming  more  and 
more  self-sufficient,  emotionally  and  intellectually.  Their  only  tie  was  in 
their  children.  Like  Mary  Lincoln,  Floride  might  well  have  said  that  had 

*  Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria  Clemson,  June  28,  1841.  Clemson  College  Papers,  written 
seven  weeks  after  he  left  for  Washington. 


318  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

her  husband  been  more  often  at  home,  she  could  have  loved  him  better.  Of 
thirty-nine  years  of  married  life,  Calhoun  spent  nearly  fifteen  away  from  his 
wife. 

There  were  his  years  as  Secretary  of  War.  Floride  had  dreamed  of 
Washington,  of  the  gay  life  there,  the  parties  and  balls,  and  her  husband, 
proud  and  adoring,  at  her  side.  Instead,  she  had  been  tumbled  pell-mell 
into  the  home  of  Mrs.  William  Lowndes,  who  was  a  Charlestonian  and  a 
lady,  but  almost  a  stranger.  The  house  was  overrun  with  children.  Lowndes 
was  an  invalid,  far  too  weak  and  ill  to  endure  social  activities  of  any 
kind.  And  at  first  Floride  had  not  even  had  a  carriage  to  ride  out  in,  for 
as  a  Congressman,  Calhoun  had  not  been  able  to  afford  one,  and  had 
shared  the  cost  of  a  horse  and  buggy  with  Lowndes.5  And  Calhoun  him- 
self overworked  and  overtired,  what  time  had  he  for  his  young  wife?  He 
was  driving  himself  to  the  point  of  collapse;  up  at  dawn,  laboring  past 
midnight,  in  a  one-man  attempt  to  wipe  out  in  his  department  the  ac- 
cumulated errors  of  twenty-five  years.  Afterwards,  of  course,  there  had 
been  Dumbarton  Oaks  .  .  .  the  receptions  ...  the  balk  .  .  .  the  tri- 
butes to  her  beauty  and  charm  of  which  she  had  dreamed;  but  then  it 
may  have  been  too  late. 


They  had  returned  to  South  Carolina.  And  there,  Floride  was  more  lonely 
than  ever,  lonely  in  a  way  Calhoun  could  never  understand.  It  was  not  the 
isolation  of  Fort  Hill  which  she  minded  especially,  or  the  perpetual  child- 
bearing,  or  the  continual  work,  supervision,  and  responsibility;  for  these 
were  all  part  of  the  Southern  life,  'the  whole  duty  of  womankind.7  But  she 
needed  her  husband  and  wanted  to  be  needed  by  him.  She  was  a  Southern 
belle,  spirited,  pampered,  and  spoiled;  she  was  of  a  generation  of  women 
that  was  worshiped  and  adored.  A  gracious  hostess,  she  would  entertain 
her  husband's  friends,  but  his  way  of  life  she  could  never  share.  Hers  was 
the  world  of  balls  and  teas,  of  literary  afternoons  and  evenings  at  the 
opera,  not  of  political  strife  and  contention.  Guests  filled  the  house,  but 
to  see  her  husband,  not  her;  there  was  conversation,  earthy  and  spirited, 
but  none  of  the  small-talk  elegancies  of  Charleston. 

Had  she  married  into  her  own  class — one  of  those  languid,  soft-spoken 
gallants  of  the  low-country,  she  could  have  gone  into  Charleston  in  the 
proper  season,  danced  at  the  Saint  Cecilias,  entertained  and  been  enter- 
tained. But  Calhoun  was  away  in  the  winter  and  she  could  not  go  alone; 
and  if  they  went  to  Charleston  in  the  summer,  he  was  always  ill.  She  was 
the  wife  of  the  most  popular  man  in  South  Carolina;  they  were  besieged 
with  invitations  to  dinners,  dances,  barbecues,  and  balls  all  over  the  state, 
but  Calhoun,  exhausted  from  his  strenuous  sessions  in  Washington,  sum- 
marily rejected  tbem.6 


XX  FLORIDE  319 

She  longed  for  her  husband's  companionship.  In  youth,  even  when  far 
advanced  in  pregnancy,  she  begged  to  accompany  him  in  his  inspection 
trips  as  Secretary  of  War;  but  he,  more  solicitous  for  her  physical  than 
her  emotional  needs,  did  not  understand.  'Mrs.  Calhoun  was  anxious  to 
accompany  me/  he  wrote  a  friend  at  the  start  of  his  1820  tour.  £I  was 
only  deterred  from  an  apprehension  that  it  would  be  too  fatiguing/ T  She 
was  the  kind  of  woman  who,  given  the  chance,  would  have  concerned  her- 
self intensely  with  such  matters  as  her  husband's  diet  and  health,  with 
protecting  him  from  undue  invasions  of  visitors,  with  all  the  little  physical 
comforts  which  he  needed  as  much  as  any  man,  but  heeded  scarcely  at  all. 

For  hei  times  and  upbringing,  Floride  was  perfectly  normal.  But  hers 
was  not  a  normal  marriage,  and  Calhoun  was  scarcely  a  normal  man.  Like 
Lincoln,  he  was  'a  genius  who  made  demands/  difficult,  complex,  highly 
organized.  When  problems  beset  him,  he  sought  only  to  be  let  alone,  to 
work  them  out  in  'hours  of  solitary  thought.'  8  Privacy  was  as  essential 
to  him  at  such  times  as  food  and  drink;  his  withdrawals  were  not  deliber- 
ate, but  instinctive.  But  this  his  wife  could  never  understand. 


Primarily,  Floride's  trouble  was  jealousy.  As  it  was  obvious  that  Calhoun 
had  eyes  for  no  other  woman,  her  jealousy  was  turned  upon  his  work  and 
daily  life,  and  even  upon  their  own  children.  Calhoun  adored  his  children, 
and  he  could  not  or  would  not  punish  them.  The  extent  of  his  efforts 
seems  to  have  amounted  to  once  sending  a  boy  away  from  the  dinner 
table  for  speaking  disrespectfully  of  a  preacher.9  He  believed  in  training 
children  through  example,  but  unfortunately,  he  was  so  seldom  at  home. 
Unfortunately,  too,  he  had  an  overadequate  share  of  theories  on  child 
development,  which  would  much  later  become  fashionable,  but  which 
played  havoc  with  poor  Floride's  attempts  at  discipline.  Children,  thought 
Calhoun,  in  unconscious  protest  against  his  own  repressed  youth,  should 
grow  up  without  control,  without  restraint.  Their  bodies  should  be  hard- 
ened by  sports  and  exercise,  but  their  minds  left  untrained  until  maturity.10 
All  this  sounded  very  well,  but  Floride,  with  five  headstrong  boys  and 
two  girls  to  bring  up,  was  obliged  to  face  reality.  Although  she  was  by  in- 
clination an  indulgent  mother,  upon  her  shoulders  fell  the  unpleasant  part 
of  the  disciplinary  problems. 

The  children  themselves,  who  felt  only  the  softer  side  of  their  father's 
nature,  of  course  adored  him.  Frail  little  Cornelia  openly  declared  that  she 
loved  Mm  better  than  anyone  else.  To  the  boys,  he  was  the  'dearest,  best 
old  man  in  the  world.'  And  as  for  Anna  Maria,  we  have  already  seen  that 
in  her  father's  later  years,  she  shared  with  him  a  companionship  which  he 
gave  no  other  person.11 


320  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

Floride  knew  it.  She  was  her  husband's  rival  for  the  affections  of  their 
children;  and  they,  in  turn,  rivaled  her  for  his  love  and  attention.  The 
unpublished  Calhoun  letters  at  Fort  Hill  show  Floride  continually  at  war 
with  one  or  another  of  the  children,  and  Calhoun  futilely  trying  to  make 
peace.  As  'your  mother  fancies  you  have  evinced  coldness  towards  her/ 
Calhoun  wrote  Anna  Maria,  he  urged  that  she  write  Floride  an  especially 
affectionate  letter.12 


For  Floride  there  was  but  one  outlet,  the  eternal  feminine  release — her 
'nerves.'  Her  South  Carolina  contemporaries,  it  must  be  admitted,  used  a 
stronger  word;  and  even  her  own  descendants  have  admitted  that  she  was 
subject  to  'fits  of  temper.'18  Stories  of  her  rages  have  seeped  through 
South  Carolina  legend  for  a  hundred  years:  of  a  silver  pitcher  with  a  dent 
in  the  side  where  it  struck  the  hard  head  of  its  human  target;  the  absence 
of  the  family  china  attributed  to  similar  misusage;  hints  that  Calhoun 
sought  refuge  in  his  office  for  days  on  end,  not  even  permitted  to  re-enter 
the  family  dwelling  until  he  had  written  Floride  a  note,  petitioning  her 
permission  to  do  so. 

These  are  the  rumors,  and  they  are  doubtless  exaggerated.  Yet,  in  later 
years,  even  in  his  unpublished  correspondence,  there  are  unmistakable 
hints  that  home  life  was  not  undiluted  serenity.  Writing  Anna  Maria  in. 
March,  1844,  he  told  her  that  a  Mrs.  Rion  had  been  engaged  as  house- 
keeper. 'Thus  far,  it  has  been  a  happy  change.  Everything  has  been  go- 
ing on  with  great  harmony  about  the  house.  ...  I  trust  the  former  un- 
pleasant state  of  things  have  passed,  not  to  return,  and  wish  to  see 
harmony  all  around.' 14 

Certainly  he  did  his  own  part  in  keeping  the  peace.  His  oldest  son  once 
declared  that  he  had  never  heard  Calhoun  speak  impatiently  to  a  single 
member  of  the  family.  His  strongest  reproof  at  one  of  his  wife's  outbursts 
was  a  gentle,  'Tut,  tut,  Floride.' *  which  no  doubt  infuriated  her  all  the 
more. 

Had  he  fought  back,  it  might  have  cleared  the  atmosphere.  Instead,  he 
retreated  to  the  office,  where  Floride  was  presumably  denied  admittance, 
and  lost  himself  in  his  books  and  papers  and  dreams.  And,  of  course,  his 
very  capacity  for  escape  annoyed  Floride.  The  more  she  resented  his  self- 
sufficiency,  the  more  self-sufficient  he  became,  spending  hours  alone  in  the 
office  or  striding  in  contented  solitude  over  lie  fields.  And  she,  resentful, 
jealous  of  all  that  took  him  from  her,  by  her  own  actions  aggravated  the 
very  qualities  against  which  she  was  rebelling. 

Most  of  all,  she  resented  his  career.  She  was  proud  of  him,  of  course,  and 
had  infinite  faith  in  his  greatness.  But  it  was  only  natural  that  she  should 


XX  FLORIDE  321 

resent  the  cares  and  labor  which  took  such  toll  of  her  husband's  physical 
strength  and  shattered  his  peace  of  mind.  His  career  took  him  from  her; 
sentenced  her  to  days  of  isolation  and  loneliness.  And  the  plantation,  too, 
justified  her  feeling  that  he  did  not  need  her,  that  he  had  outlets  which 
she  could  never  share. 

Floride  raged  at  his  utter  masculine  superiority.  Who  ran  the  planta- 
tion while  he  was  away?  He  could  shift  the  responsibility  to  her  in  the 
winter  months  without  a  by-your-leave;  yet,  when  home,  it  seemed  as  if 
he  thought  not  a  leaf  or  a  blade  of  grass  could  grow  unless  he  personally 
saw  to  it.  He  could  praise  her  'management,'  yet  once  he  was  at  home, 
her  activity  was  relegated  to  the  kitchen  and  the  sewing  room.  He  was 
the  'Master  of  Fort  Hill.' 

Very  well!  If  she  were  to  be  penned  up  on  the  plantation,  it  was  she 
who  would  rule.  If  lines  of  demarcation  were  to  be  drawn,  she  would 
draw  them.  If  his  was  the  plantation,  hers  was  the  house. 

For  the  house  was  hers,  she  felt.  It  had  been  in  her  family,  not  Cal- 
houn's.  Her  frustrated  nervous  energy  demanded  outlet;  she  was  'beset 
with  the  idea  of  making  improvements/  Although  her  child-bearing  days 
were  over  before  1830,  she  had  carpenters  at  work,  hammering,  shingling, 
adding  room  after  room  for  the  next  twenty  years.  It  was  neighborhood 
legend  that  every  time  Calhoun  went  to  Washington,  Floride  added  an- 
other room;  for,  as  she  said,  there  wasn't  much  he  could  do  but  pay 
for  it,  once  it  was  there. 

Calhoun  was  distressed  by  these  'haphazard  additions,'  but  reasoning, 
persuasion,  outright  pleading  had  no  effect  upon  Floride.  In  desperation, 
the  harassed  man  appealed  to  his  brother-in-law:  'She  writes  me  that  she 
is  desirous  to  commence  an  addition  to  our  House  ...  on  her  return 
to  Pendleton.  I  think  it  would  not  be  advisable  on  many  accounts,  till 
after  my  return.  ...  I  have  long  since  learned  by  sad  experience  what 
it  is  to  build  in  my  absence.  It  would  cost  me  twice  as  much  and  the 
work  then  will  not  be  half  as  well  done.  ...  I  could  build  at  compara- 
tively small  expense,  and  have  it  well  done  tinder  my  own  eye.  I  wish  you 
to  add  your  weight  to  mine  to  reconcile  her  to  the  course  I  suggest.  I 
have  written  her  fully  on  the  subject.' lft 


Sometimes  a  wildness  would  break  across  her.  She  would  turn  Sunday  into 
washday,  send  the  Negroes  scurrying  from  house  to  well-house  with  heap- 
ing baskets,  and  shock  Calhoun's  afternoon  visitors  with  lines  strung  with 
billowing  petticoats,  spencers,  and  ruffled  under-drawers.  She  would  storm 
through  the  house  and  the  grounds,  locking  every  window,  every  door, 
every  closet,  storeroom,  smokehouse,  and  outhouse  on  the  plantation.  She 


322  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

would  call  for  the  carriage  and  drive  off,  leaving  her  husband  to  break 
down  the  doors  and  do  the  explaining  to  the  gentlemen  of  Pendleton  when 
he  brought  them  home  for  a  long-planned  dinner  party.  Was  this  her 
answer  to  the  curious  fact,  noted  instantly  by  a  visitor  to  the  plantation, 
that  the  key  to  Calhoun's  office  was  always  'under  his  immediate  control/ 
with  'no  one'  permitted  to  enter  it  but  himself,  unless  he  was  there?  17 

Was  not  the  mistress  of  the  plantation  always  the  keeper  of  the  keys? 

She  would  stand  staring  down  at  the  'fantastic  pattern'  of  her  hus- 
band's flower  garden,  which  he  had  laid  out  with  such  tender  care;  for 
he  loved  flowers,  and  always  came  home  with  his  trunk  crammed  with 
exotic  cuttings,  which  he  planted  with  the  same  zest  that  he  put  into  his 
crop  experimentations.18  But  Floride  did  not  like  it.  The  garden  was  hers. 
He  had  said  so  himself.  Did  he  not  send  her  seeds  for  her  flowers  and 
watermelons?  What  did  he,  an  up-countryman,  know  about  gardens?  And 
the  story  goes  that  one  night,  when  he  was  safely  asleep,  Floride  called 
out  the  whole  body  of  slaves,  with  reinforcements  from  the  neighbors, 
and  by  morning  had  every  flower  replanted.19 


Calhoun  was  impervious  to  Floride's  outbreaks.  She  could  not  hurt  him, 
because  he  could  not  and  would  not  feel  himself  responsible.  He  blamed 
all  upon  her  'nerves/  which  were,  indeed,  her  one  power  over  him.  For 
physically,  Floride  seems  to  have  been  quite  a  healthy  woman.  Calhoun, 
in  1848,  weary  and  'never  free  from  a  cough/  wrote  rather  enviously  of 
her  'fine  health/  and  'excellent'  constitution.20  Nevertheless,  the  'attacks 
of  a  Nervous  Character/  which  kept  her  in  bed  for  periods  ranging  from 
two  days  to  four  weeks,  'under  constant  apprehensions  of  dying/  gave 
him  'horrible  anxiety.' 21 

Consciously  or  unconsciously,  this  was  exactly  what  Floride  wanted 
him  to  feel.  He  no  doubt  diagnosed  her  complaint  accurately  as  'more 
from  agitation  than  any  other  cause';  but  a  psychiatrist,  observing  the 
dramatic  ailments  of  this  high-strung  ex-belle,  her  whole  family  summoned 
to  await  the  end,*  would  have  had  no  difficulty  in  detecting  her  resentment 
at  the  attention  and  adulation  lavished  upon  her  famous  husband.  For 
when  Floride  was  the  most  popular  woman  in  Washington,  her  temper 
was  'perfectly  equable.'  ** 

When  she  was  ill,  Calhoun  was  the  kind  of  husband  Floride  always 
wanted  him  to  be.  He  was  tender,  solicitous,  'very  uneasy  about  her.'  Most 
important,  he  was  with  her,  at  her  bedside.  And  his  sympathy  was  real. 

*  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  most  of  these  illnesses  took  place  when  Calhoun  was 
at  home,  not  when  he  was  in  Washington  and  Floride  was  essential  to  her  family  and 
the  direction  of  the  plantation 


XX  FLORIDE  323 

His  letters  are  sifted  through  with  references  to  the  'severe  Nervous  condi- 
tion to  which  she  is  subject';  **  written  always  with  great  concern  and 
genuine  pity.  There  is  not  a  line  that  he  would  have  feared  to  show  her. 


7 

Primarily,  Calhoun  craved  from  his  wife  intellectual  companionship,  and 
even  his  earliest  love-letters  show  that  in  Floride  he  was  seeking  'beauty 
of  mind'  as  well  as  physical  fulfillment.  But  Floride  was  different,  and 
Calhoun  self-absorbed,  on  the  threshold  of  his  career,  had  not  the  slightest 
conception  of  how  to  bring  her  mind  into  harmony  with  his. 

At  first,  it  did  not  seem  to  matter.  In  the  early  years  of  their  marriage, 
with  passion  alternating  with  separation,  with  friends  like  Littleton  Taze- 
well  and  William  Lowndes,  with  whom  he  could  exchange  ideas,  he  had 
sufficient  mental  stimulation.  Then  came  the  Peggy  O'Neil  episode,  and 
the  same  tragedy  that  for  years  wrecked  Calhoun's  public  hopes  tore  at 
the  roots  of  his  private  life.  For  he  had  reached  middle  age  then,  and 
with  blood  cooled  and  hopes  dimmed,  with  duty,  not  glory,  the  watch- 
word of  his  future,  he  turned,  too  late,  to  the  wife  he  had  unknowingly 
neglected.  Then,  if  ever,  he  needed  understanding  both  intellectual  and 
emotional,  but  it  was  too  late.*  As  we  have  seen,  the  Eaton  affair  marked 
a  crisis  in  Floride's  own  life,  and  the  pride  for  which  she  had  sacrificed 
her  husband's  political  prospects  dealt  no  more  tenderly  with  his  per- 
sonal needs. 

Never,  she  had  resolved,  would  she  return  to  Washington  until  it  was 
freed  from  the  'contamination5  of  Mrs.  Eaton's  presence.24  And  she  did 
not  return,  not  even  in  that  tense  January  of  1833  when,  alone,  her  hus- 
band faced  Andrew  Jackson  and  the  greatest  crisis  of  his  career.  And 
alone  he  would  face  every  crisis  of  his  life  thereafter,  down  to  the  stark 
solitude  of  his  Washington  death-chamber,  when  in  far-off  Carolina 
Floride  waited  hopefully  for  a  summons  that  came  too  late.25 

Calhoun  accepted  matters  philosophically.  He  was  too  masculine  in 
temperament  to  concern  himself  with  feminine  whys  and  wherefores.  He 
needed  his  family;  he  missed  them  keenly,  but,  if  lonely,  he  could  be 
content,  for  he  had  never  known  anything  but  loneliness.  His  solitary 
childhood  had  stamped  his  character  for  life;  he  was  too  self-reliant,  too 
sufficient  unto  himself.28 

*  See  Calhoun's  letter  to  Anna  Maria  quoted  on  page  281  in  which  he  said  that 
he  had  sent  Floride  a  copy  of  his  speech  on  the  'deposite'  question,  but  feared  she 
would  not  read  it  as  she  took  'no  interest  in  such  things.' 


324  JOHN  C.  CALHOUN 


8 

Dark  as  this  side  of  the  story  is,  one  fact  is  unmistakably  clear.  Calhoun 
married  Floride  because  he  loved  her,  and,  in  his  own  way,  he  loved  her 
all  the  years  of  his  life.  She  stirred  him,  baffled  him,  sometimes  amused 
him,  but  always  knew  how  to  pique  and  hold  his  interest.  To  her,  he 
knew,  he  was  neither  the  demon  that  he  appeared  to  one  section  of  the 
country,  nor  the  demigod  that  he  seemed  to  the  other,  but  a  man  and 
husband,  and  sometimes  a  most  exasperating  one.  And  being  flesh  and 
blood,  Calhoun  must  have  occasionally  enjoyed  being  treated  as  such. 

Nor  were  his  longings  to  be  home  and  'be  quiet7  ignored  completely. 
For  all  her  faults,  Floride  sensed  at  times  that  gentleness  and  affection 
were  necessary.  More  than  once  her  husband  returned  to  her  so  broken  in 
health  and  tormented  in  mind  that  no  one  expected  ever  to  see  him  in 
Washington  again;  yet  after  a  few  months  of  rest  and  of  Floride's  nursing, 
he  was  back,  revived  in  mind  and  body. 

His  letters  are  crammed  with  this  eagerness  to  be  at  home.  'These  long 
seperations  .  .  .  from  those  dear  to  me  ...  are  exceedingly  painful/  he 
would  write  Anna  Maria.  'My  anxiety  to  return  increases  daily  ...  a 
month  more  and  my  face  will  be  turned  homeward  to  my  great  delight. 
...  I  can  scarcely  describe  my  eagerness  to  see  you  all.'  These  are  not 
the  longings  of  a  man  unhappy  at  home,  although  his  remark  that  he 
found  his  children  'the  great  solace  of  life'  may  indicate  the  direction 
in  which  his  affections  primarily  lay.27 

During  restless,  bitter  years  when  his  public  life  was  sheer  tragedy,  he 
knew  his  only  happiness  with  his  family.  To  those  who  knew  him,  it  was 
obvious  that  his  'home  had  attractions  for  him  superior  to  which  any  other 
place  could  offer.'  There  his  manners,  'at  all  times  agreeable,'  became  ut- 
terly 'captivating';  *  his  shyness,  which  he  concealed  under  his  free- 
flowing  conversation,  was  completely  gone.  'Few  men,'  declared  one  ob- 
server, indulged  their  families  in  'as  free  and  confidential  conversation'  ** 
as  he  did.  He  was  most  charming  when  completely  himself,  and  he  was 
completely  himself  only  at  home. 

If  marriage  and  family  ties  were  only  a  part  of  his  existence,  his  feel- 
ings were  none  the  less  strong.  Some  even  felt  that,  far  from  subordinating 
his  family  to  the  demands  of  office,  Calhoun  allowed  his  family  affections 
to  become  too  warm  and  absorbing.  To  be  at  home  he  neglected  social 
duties  almost  obligatory  to  his  position.  Floride  could  brood  over  the 
times  that  he  had  left  her  alone;  yet  after  thirty-three  years  of  marriage 
he  almost  declined  a  seat  in  Tyler's  Cabinet  for  fear  that  he  could  not 
persuade  Floride  to  come  to  Washington  with  him  again.30 

Henry  Clay,  indeed,  declared  that  he  had  never  seen  a  man  treat  his 
wife  with  such  'tenderness,  respect,  and  affection'  as  Calhoun  showed 


XX  FLORIDE  325 

Florida.31  He  was  not  the  kind  of  man  to  have  remembered  birthdays  or 
anniversaries,  but  austere  as  he  was  in  his  personal  desires,  his  generosity 
to  his  own  family  was  almost  more  than  he  could  afford.  'You  must  tell 
the  children/  he  would  write  Anna  Maria,  'that  I  will  bring  out  with  me, 
when  I  return  home,  the  prettiest  books  that  I  can  find*' M  Washington 
matrons  would  glance  up  startled  to  find  the  Senator  from  South  Carolina 
at  their  side,  searching  the  drygoods  counters  for  the  kind  of  white  silk 
stockings  that  Floride  liked  best;  or,  indeed,  any  gift  that  would  take  her 
fancy.  'Peace  offerings/  the  cynical  called  them.33 

Tragedy  lurks  behind  his  muted  words  to  his  son  Andrew  in  the  summer 
of  1847:  'As  to  the  suspicion  and  unfounded  blame  of  your  Mother,  you 
must  not  only  bear  them,  but  forget  them.  With  the  many  good  qualities 
of  her  Mother,  she  inherits  her  suspicious  and  fault  finding  temper,  which 
has  been  the  cause  of  much  vexation  in  the  family.  I  have  borne  with 
her  with  patience,  because  it  was  my  duty  to  do  so,  &  you  must  do  the 
same,  for  the  same  reason.  It  has  been  the  only  cross  of  my  life.' ** 

Yet  his  fundamental  love  for  his  wife  lightened  the  darker  side  of  their 
marriage.  He  paid  Floride  the  supreme  tribute  of  obliviousness  to  her 
faults.  It  was  upon  her  virtues  that  he  focused  his  attention,  genuinely  ad- 
miring her  common-sense  and  energy.  'Whatever  your  mother  does,  she 
does  well,'  he  wrote  Anna  Maria.  'I  have  no  doubt  that  her  management 
of  the  estate  will  quite  discredit  mine.' M  Late  in  life  he  told  a  friend  that 
he  had  never  regretted  his  marriage;  it  had  been  a  'true  union  of  the 
heart  and  soul.'  *  Significantly,  he  did  not  mention  the  mind.  Even  more 
significant  was  that  he  felt  called  upon  to  defend  his  marriage  at  all. 


But  it  was  a  marriage.  Their  hours  of  hardship  were  flecked  with  moments 
of  joy.  Their  memories  together  spanned  nearly  a  half-century;  they  had 
been  young;  they  had  known  the  ecstasy  of  courtship  and  of  married  love; 
the  long,  lonely  months  of  separation,  the  waiting,  the  hungering,  the 
consolation  and  release  of  reunion.  Nine  children  had  been  born  to  them, 
and  each  had  been  welcomed  with  joy.  Two  had  died,  and  together  the 
father  and  mother  had  stood  sorrowing  beside  their  bodies.  There  was  the 
echo  of  Cornelia's  crutches  to  hold  them  together,  their  pride  and  delight 
in  their  boys'  brilliance  and  in  Anna  Maria's  grace  and  charm.  If  neither 
had  completely  found  nor  understood  the  needs  of  the  other,  if  neither 
shared  the  other's  innermost  thoughts  and  dreams,  if  at  their  moments  of 
deepest  loneliness,  of  greatest  tragedy,  they  were  physically  and  spiritually 
alone,  there  was  still  much  that  Calhoun  and  Floride  did  share.  Together, 
they  built  a  life,  a  home,  a  marriage.  They  were  often  unhappy.  Yet  they 
had  their  moments  of  happiness.  Their  marriage  was  real,  not  a  Victorian 
ideal.  Probably  they  were  as  happy  as  most  couples. 


XXI 

Years  of  Decision 


IN  MAY,  1837,  eight  weeks  after  Martin  Van  Buren  took  office  as  Presi- 
dent, the  financial  bubble  burst. 

For  Nicolas  Biddle,  the  collapse  was  providential.  Old  Hickory  was 
gone — in  retirement  at  the  Hermitage.  To  Mr.  Biddle  the  panic  offered 
'an  excellent  opportunity  ...  for  securing  his  former  prestige  in  the 
financial  world.7  * 

So  Jackson  had  killed  the  National  Bank!  He  had  by  no  means  'killed 
it  dead.'  For  in  March,  1836,  one  day  before  the  federal  charter  had  ex- 
pired, America  had  learned  that  although  'dead/  the  Bank  had  calmly 
refused  to  give  up  the  ghost,  'refused  to  cease  its  operations  _.  .  and 
continued  ...  as  if  in  full  life.' 2  All  that  had  had  to  be  done  was  to 
transfer  the  notes  of  the  'defunct'  institution  to  the  Pennsylvania  Bank 
of  the  United  States,  and  to  continue  'business  as  usual.'  Mr.  Biddle  of 
Philadelphia  was  ideally  situated  to  reopen  his  battle  for  control  of  the 
nation's  monetary  system,  but  two  short  months  after  that  March  morn- 
ing when  Van  Buren  had  taken  the  Presidential  oath,  and  the  weeping 
thousands  had  cheered,  not  him,  but  his  predecessor,  a  frail,  stooped  figure 
in  black,  lifting  his  cane  in  salute  as  he  stood  silent  in  the  wind,  his  white 
hair  blowing  back  from  his  face. 

On  the  morning  of  May  10,  1837,  a  card  was  pinned  on  the  door  of  a 
New  York  bank,  reading  simply,  'Closed  until  further  notice.'  By  after- 
noon Philip  Hone,  watching  the  mobs  'swirling  outside,7  could  hear  the 
screams  of  the  trampled  women,  the  curses  against  Jackson  and  Van 
Buren.3 

For  a  few  days  more  the  Southern  banks  continued  in  operation,  al- 
though Niks'  Register  smelled  conspiracy  when  the  banks  of  Mobile  and 
New  Orleans  ceased  business,  even  before  the  arrival  of  the  Northern 
newspapers!  4  Last  of  all,  the  vault-like  doors  of  the  Greek  temple  on 
Chestnut  Street  closed— 'the  tomb  of  many  fortunes/  mused  Charles 
Dickens,  five  years  afterward,  looking  up  at  the  tall  columns,  ghostly  in 
the  moonlight,5 

The  Panic  of  1837  was  no  slump  of  a  year.  It  was  the  depression  of  an 
era.  It  was  not  national;  it  was  world-wide.  It  was  not  the  work  of 


XXI  YEARS   OF  DECISION  327 

Nicholas  Biddle,  who  had  suspended  merely  to  protect  his  funds  in  the 
hope  of  later  being  invited  to  restore  a  sound  currency.  Nor  was  it  the 
work  of  Andrew  Jackson,  who  had  heard  the  rumblings  of  the  approach- 
^g  storm  as  early  as  two  years  before.  Acting  by  instinct,  he  had  halted 
all  credit  sales  of  the  public  lands,  stipulating  in  his  famed  'Specie  Cir- 
cular' that  only  gold  and  silver  be  accepted  in  payment  for  public  prop- 
erty. He  was  right — in  principle.  But  by  sucking  gold  and  silver  west- 
ward, where  land  sales  had  tripled  from  1834—35,  the  'Circular7  had  proved 
disastrous  in  practice. 

The  combination  of  wildcat  banking  and  unrestrained  wildcat  efforts 
at  federal  control  was  too  much.  The  Panic  of  1837  climaxed  the  dizziest, 
fastest,  richest  boom  era  the  young  Republic  had  ever  known.  All  over 
the  nation  banks  had  stretched  their  credit  to  the  limit,  passing  out 
millions  in  paper  'shin-plasters.'  To  finance  the  new  cotton  mills  and  canals, 
the  railroads  and  turnpikes,  banks  had  been  'created  as  if  by  magic.' 
Loans  were  passed  out  to  stockholders  before  even  the  capital  was  paid  in. 
Fictitious  deposits  were  added  to  the  books  to  increase  circulation.  Paper 
dollars  to  silver  were  in  the  ratio  of  20  to  1.  Small  wonder  that  suspicious 
British  financiers  called  their  loans,  tightened  credit,  and  started  new 
specie  runs  on  the  hapless  banks  of  America. 

Even  wilder  were  conditions  in  the  South,  where  slaves,  plantations, 
and  machinery  could  all  be  bought  on  paper.  In  Mississippi  one  man  was 
indebted  to  the  banks  for  a  minion  dollars!  Often  not  a  penny  of  real 
capital  existed,  'beyond  the  small  sums  paid  in  by  the  unsuspecting  de- 
positors.' 6 

Speculation  in  government  lands  had  become  an  orgy.  The  country  was 
sown  with  'plans  of  new  .  .  .  towns,  drawings  ...  in  which  every  street 
was  laid  down  and  named,  churches,  theaters,  etc.' 7  Men  fought  for  lots 
in  those  visionary  cities  of  prairie  grass  and  marsh-muck,  paid  in  notes 
from  a  bank,  and  sold  them  at  a  profit  a  month  or  two  later  to  men  who 
again  paid  for  them  on  credit.8 

First  the  boom,  then  the  crash!  Slowly  the  great  flood  moved  across 
America.  It  was  a  year  before  it  poured  over  the  Southern  back-country, 
but  then  through  the  South,  the  ruin  was  'complete.'  It  engulfed  the  Mis- 
sissippi Delta  country,  leaving  a  trail  of  empty  plantation  houses,  barns, 
and  granaries  sagging  into  ruins,  and  crudely  lettered  signs  flopping  from 
trees,  'Gone  to  Texas.'  It  ravaged  the  country  from  New  Orleans  to 
Cincinnati,  where  hungry  mobs  smashed  down  doors,  tore  apart  the  furni- 
ture, looted  the  strong-boxes  of  banks  and  brokerage  offices.9  Eight  hundred 
and  fifty  banks  were  closed;  three  hundred  and  forty-three  never  opened 
again. 

The  deflation  was  complete.  Securities  had  become  insecurities.  Tobacco 
was  worthless,  cotton  'below  calculation.' 10  Of  the  fortunes  that  were  lost, 
of  the  great  business  houses  that  were  ruined,  the  public  heard — Nicholas 


328  JOHN   C-   CALHOUN 

Biddle  saw  to  that.  Of  the  uncounted,  unheeded  thousands  that  suffered 
and  starved  and  died,  of  the  hopeless  young  men  who  wandered  the 
streets  seeking  work,  little  was  said.  No  relief  came  from  the  government. 
Free  men,  free  to  find  or  refuse  work,  did  not  expect  it.  It  would  violate 
the  principles  of  Thomas  Jefferson  for  the  government  to  repair,  by  direct 
grants  of  money  or  legislation,  losses  not  incurred  in  the  public  service.11 

But  theories  filled  no  stomachs.  Not  only  credit,  but  actual  coin,  had 
almost  completely  disappeared.  Where?  No  one  knew.  It  was  'systemati- 
cally suppressed.' 12  Much  was  sucked  into  the  big  cities  and  sent  overseas. 
Some  was  bought  and  sold  'like  common  merchandise.'  Even  the  federal 
government  bowed  to  Biddle's  'suspension'  orders,  unable  to  use  its  own 
gold  and  silver  stored  away  in  those  'closed'  banks.  It  is  true  that  Andrew 
Jackson  had  a  brilliant  idea,  pertaining  to  the  gold  and  silver  in  the  Western 
land  offices.  This,  the  government  could  pay  out  to  its  creditors — and  at 
least  maintain  prestige.  He  wrote  to  Van  Buren,  but  unfortunately  that 
gentleman  had  already  announced  that  the  government's  obligations  would 
be  paid  in  paper — paper  so  far  below  the  value  of  the  debts  that  Benton 
foresaw  the  grim  vision  of  a  public  debt,  'that  horror  .  .  .  shame,  and 
mortal  test  of  governments.' M 

But  everyone  was  making  money.  Counterfeiting  was  the  sport  of  the 
day.  Democrats  hammered  stray  bits  of  copper,  brass,  and  iron  into  coins" 
ornamented  with  taunting  pictures  of  the  'whole  hog';  Whigs  coined  tin 
tokens,  engraved  with  likenesses  of  Jackson  and  Van  Buren. 

Semi-legal  bank  notes,  varying  from  state  to  state  and  section  to  section, 
were  now  the  'sole  currency  of  the  country.'  'I  O  U's  from  the  Treasury,' 
Captain  Marryat  called  them.  The  British  mariner  found  New  York  strug- 
gling along  on  a  strange,  barter-scrip  basis:  coins  for  a  glass  of  brandy 
brought  change  in  fifteen  'tickets'  good  for  fifteen  glasses  of  brandy. 
Change  from  a  dinner  in  an  oyster  house  was  good  only  for  more  oysters. 

'Do  you  want  any  oysters  for  lunch?'  Marryat  asked  his  barber. 

'Yes.' 

'Then  here's  a  ticket  and  give  me  two  shaves  in  return.' 14 

Burlesque  notes  announced  themselves  as  'the  better  currency.'  A  few 
even  reached  the  Hermitage,  taunting  Jackson  with  such  slurs  as  'this  is 
what  you've  brought  the  country  to,'  and,  'behold  the  effects  of  tampering 
with  the  currency.'  The  President's  house  was  infested,  polluted,  with 
vulgar  cartoons,  for  the  American  public,  true  to  earlier  and  later  custom, 
was  convinced  that  whoever  was  in  power  at  the  time  of  a  catastrophe  was 
responsible.  By  the  time  the  government  pensioned  off  the  old  war  veterans 
at  a  loss  of  ninety-five  cents  on  the  dollar,  even  loyal  Tennessee  was  turn- 
ing Whig;  and  the  demand  for  the  return  of  the  United  States  Bank  led 
Benton  to  comment  dryly  that  the  'children  of  Israel  were  waiting  for  the 
fleshpots  of  Egypt.' 15 

Calhoun  understood. it.  He  had  seen  how  far  the  public  credit  had  been 


XXI  YEARS  OF  DECISION  329 

stretched,  how  the  National  Bank,  by  expanding  and  contracting  the 
currency,  by  raising  and  depressing  prices,  could  'command  the  whole 
property  and  industry  of  the  country.3  The  'connection  between  Banks 
and  Government/  he  knew,  was  'the  source  of  immense  profit  to  the 
Banks.' 16  But  was  it  fair,  was  it  just  to  lend  out  public  funds  to  profit 
private  individuals? 

Now,  at  last,  belatedly,  with  Jackson  out  of  the  picture,  Calhoun  could 
regard  the  question  with  a  single  eye.  His  personal  record  was  clear.  No 
I  O  U's  to  the  Bank  weighted  his  pockets.  True,  he  had  supported  the 
Bank  in  1816,  but  only  because,  if  the  government  received  bank  notes 
as  credit,  it  must  have  power  to  regulate  their  value.  And  although,  a 
year  or  two  before,  he  would  have  supported  some  kind  of  temporary  bank 
to  'unbank  the  banks/  he  knew  that  now  the  time  for  halfway  measures 
was  past.  He  was  against  'the  chartering  of  a  United  States  Bank,  or  any 
connection  with  Biddies  ...  in  a  word  for  a  complete  seperation  from  the 
whole  concern.' 17 

Henry  Clay's  appeal  for  the  Bank's  revival  he  viewed  with  'withering' 
scorn.  'The  Senator  says  the  country  is  in  agony,  crying  for  "Action, 
action."  I  understand  where  that  cry  comes  from.  It  comes  from  .  .  .  men 
who  expect  another  expansion  to  relieve  themselves  at  the  expense  of  the 
government.  "Action,  action,"  means  nothing  but  "Plunder!  Plunder!"  and 
I  assure  the  Senator  from  Kentucky  that  he  is  not  any  more  anxious  in 
urging  a  system  of  plunder  than  I  shall  be  in  opposing  it'  * 


Visitors  to  Fort  Hill  in  the  summer  of  1837  found  Calhoun  more  ab- 
stracted than  they  had  seen  him  in  years,  his  brow  furrowed  and  his  face 
drawn  with  thought.  He  was  completely  uncommunicative.  In  neither 
letter  nor  conversation  did  he  confide  in  anyone  except  a  few  intimates 
such  as  Pickens  and  Hammond.  Yet,  as  Arthur  Schlesinger,  Jr.,  has  pointed 
out,  with  the  one  possible  exception  of  the  Dred  Scott  case,  Cdhoun's 
thinking  that  summer  was  perhaps  the  most  important  decision  reached 
by  an  American  leader  before  the  Civil  War. 

Upon  it  would  rest  the  unity  of  poor  white  and  planter,  which  made  the 
Southern  stand  possible.  From  it  can  be  traced  the  origin  of  the  American 
political  system,  that  strange  alliance  of  city  laborers  and  bosses  and 
Southern  agrarians,  which  was  to  characterize  the  Democratic  Party  for 
a  hundred  years.  And  in  it  is  the  test  of  Calhoun's  statesmanship.  South 
Carolina  had  driven  him  into  nullification  a  decade  before.  Now  it  was 
he  who  drove  the  South  where  he  was  convinced  it  must  go. 

The  scheme  was  gigantic.  Only  a  dedicated  mind  could  have  conceived 
it.  Only  a  cast-iron  will  could  have  carried  it  through.  Single-handed  and 


330  JOHN  C.   CALHOXJN 

on  Ms  own  authority,  Calhoun  determined  to  break  down  the  alliance  of 
Northern  businessmen  and  Southern  planters,  and  by  union  on  the  States7 
rights  issue  to  throw  the  South  en  masse  into  the  Democratic  Party,  the 
party  of  Jefferson — and  of  Andrew  Jackson. 

Involved  was  the  defiance  of  fifty  years  of  Southern  history  and  of 
nearly  three  quarters  of  the  Southern  planting  aristocracy.  For  the  planters 
had  inherited  their  Whiggery  from  Federalist  ancestors,  along  with  their 
Hepplewhite  chairs  and  Chippendale  tables.  They  loathed  the  Democrats. 
They  had  mistrusted  Jefferson  and  hated  Jackson.  They  had  voted  for 
Henry  Clay,  and  tolerated  Calhoun  only  because  of  his  unflinching  devo- 
tion to  Southern  institutions. 

The  crash  had  set  Calhoun  thinking.  The  interests  of  gentlemen  in  all 
sections,  so  the  Whig  leaders  preached,  were  identical.  Were  they  so? 
Already  the  South  had  paused  to  'calculate  the  value  of  the  Union';  now 
the  time  had  come  to  'calculate'  the  value  of  the  Whig  Party.  Schlesinger 
has  pointed  up  the  question:  Were  the  interests  of  the  South,  of  the  men 
who  drew  their  livelihood  from  the  soil,  more  endangered  by  the  onrush 
of  finance  capitalism  or  by  radical  laboring  democracy?  19 

Had  the  capitalistic  alliance  profited  the  planters  of  the  South?  Why, 
because  of  the  stock-brokers'  deflation  in  London  and  New  York  City, 
were  'rich'  landholders  in  the  Southern  states  without  money  even  for 
postage  stamps?  Why  had  not  a  Southern  bank  paid  out  a  dollar  in  silver 
or  gold  since  the  collapse  of  Biddle's  'monster'?  20  Why? 

Cotton  was  king,  said  the  Whig  planters.  Who  had  crowned  that  puppet 
king?  London  and  New  York,  not  Savannah  and  New  Orleans,  fixed  the 
price  of  cotton  on  the  world  exchange.  The  planter  sold  low  on  London 
terms  and  bought  high  on  the  terms  of  the  New  York  inspired  tariff  laws. 
Because  of  cotton  and  the  tariff  and  the  world  bankers,  it  seemed  to  Cal- 
houn, the  whole  South  was  going  into  debt. 

Again,  why? 

Southern  planters  could  not  borrow  on  their  crop  futures  from  the  small 
and  overburdened  banks  of  the  South.  They  had  to  borrow  from  New 
York,  which,  in  turn,  borrowed  from  London,  and  London  and  New  York 
both  demanded  that  cotton  be  pledged  as  collateral.  For  the  more  cotton 
raised,  the  lower  the  price,  and  the  higher  the  output  and  profits  of  the 
mjlls  in  Lowell  and  Lancashire.  Cotton  was  king.  Two  million  pounds  a 
year  in  Washington's  day;  two  billion  a  year  by  1860.  Cotton  was  king 
simply  because  the  banks  lent  only  to  those  who  would  grow  cotton.  Cotton 
and  slavery  were  fixed  upon  the  South.  All  else  was  'ruthlessly  de- 
stroyed.'21 

This  vicious  cycle  in  itself  would  have  been  enough  to  convince  Calhoun 
that  Southern  agriculture  was  becoming  financially  prostrated  before 
Northern  capitalism.  But  he  saw  more.  New  York  dominated  'every  phase 
of  the  cotton  trade  .  .  .  from  plantation  to  market.'  And  year  by  year 


XXI  YEARS  OF  DECISION  331 

new  chapters  would  be  added.  Southern  railroads,  Southern  mines,  even 
slave-worked  plantations,  would  be  taken  over  by  Northern  creditors  and 
controlled  and  managed  by  Northern  capital.  To  Northern  businessmen 
went  forty  cents  out  of  every  dollar  paid  for  Southern  cotton,  DeBow 
asserted;  and  every  profitable  branch  of  the  cotton  industry — selling, 
banking,  brokering,  insurance,  freight — all  were  'enjoyed'  in  New  York.22 

Underneath  this  financial  subjection  of  one  great  interest  by  another, 
Calhoun  saw  nothing  less  than  the  destruction  of  American  political  free- 
dom. For  he  knew  that  the  foundation  of  political  freedom  was  economic 
self-sufficiency.  A  slaveless  farmer  could  be  free  were  he  able  to  raise 
sufficient  food  for  his  own  livelihood.  But  a  planter,  drowned  in  cotton, 
dependent  upon  the  goodwill  of  his  New  York  banker,  could  scarcely 
afford  to  offend  his  partner  by  differing  from  him  politically. 

It  added  up. 

Calhoun  saw  the  conflict  as  Jefferson  had  seen  it,  not  between  the 
propertied  and  the  propertyless,  but  between  capital  built  on  inflated 
public  paper  and  bank  stock  and  capital  in  the  agrarian  tradition,  resting 
either  on  individual  ownership  of  the  means  of  production  or  of  tie  land. 
Between  the  two  was  no  common  ground.  And  the  'terrible  giant'  that 
would  strangle  landownership  and  machine  operatives  alike  was  finance 
capitalism. 

As  early  as  1834,  Calhoun  had  voiced  his  forebodings.  Industry  could 
be  productive  only  as  the  workers  shared  in  the  profits  of  production. 
'Capitalism,'  he  declared,  sought  'to  destroy  and  absorb  the  property  of 
society.  .  .  .  The  capitalist  owns  the  instruments  of  kbor,  and  he  seeks 
to  draw  out  of  labor  all  the  profits,  leaving  the  laborer  to  shift  for  him- 
self in  age  and  disease.' tt  Was  freedom  possible  where  one  man  was  de- 
pendent upon  another  for  his  livelihood?  In  the  South,  all  white  men, 
from  the  swamp  squatter  to  the  cotton  snob,  had  at  least  a  mutuality  of 
interest.  But  in  the  North,  with  master  and  man  pitted  against  each  other 
in  a  contest  for  survival,  inevitable  inequalities,  both  economic  and  social, 
were  wrecking  the  democratic  program.24  And  now,  what  by  tradition 
the  capitalist  had  done  to  his  operative,  he  was  preparing  to  do  to  his 
rival. 

The  missing  pieces  were  slipping  into  the  puzzle.  Certainly  the  monetary 
question  was  as  dangerous  if  not  more  dangerous  than  abolition.  'More 
dangerous  than  church  and  state,'  Calhoun  had  termed  the  union  of  the 
banking  and  the  political  powers;  but  only  now  did  he  see  the  picture  in 
its  entirety.  From  this  one  evil,  as  he  saw  it,  flowed  all  the  rest.  He  said, 
'the  revenue  is  the  State,  and  those  who  control  the  revenue  control  the 
State.'  Openly,  Henry  Clay  had  avowed  that  the  question  of  the  Bank 
involved  'the  disunion  of  the  States  themselves.'  If  so,  if  the  Bank  was  in- 
dispensable to  the  government,  then,  indeed,  it  was  stronger  than  the 
government  Could  cthat  favor  equality/  wondered  Calhoun,  'which  gives 


332  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

to  one  portion  of  the  citizens  and  the  country,  such  decided  advantages 
over  the  other?' 

Through  a  national  debt  and  'loans  to  Congressmen/  the  banking  power 
would  have  'a  vested  interest  in  the  United  States  of  America.'  From  there 
on,  the  program  was  automatic.  Northern  business  interests — indifferent 
to  'minority  protests— would  control  Congress  in  the  name  of  the  Whig 

Party. 

The  end,  Calhoun  concluded,  would  be  the  destruction  of  the  American 
federal  system;  for  States'  rights  presented  irresistible  checks  to  the  'pro- 
gress' of  industrial  capitalism.  Unwilling  to  tolerate  such  frustration  of 
their  will,  the  industrial  interests  would  see  to  it  that  there  would  be  a 
'government  of  the  absolute  majority,  which  would  destroy  our  system 
and  destroy  the  South/ 25  The  cotton  states  would  have  a  choice:  consolida- 
tion or  disunion;  to  the  great  American  experiment,  the  end  would  be  the 
same. 

This,  then,  was  the  question.  Would  the  federal  government  remain 
federal?  Or  would  it  be  taken  over  by  the  powers  of  finance  capitalism? 
The  industrial  revolution  that  was  transforming  America  from  a  rural  to 
an  urban  society  could  neither  be  reversed  nor  checked.  Could  it  be  con- 
trolled? Or  would  the  South  be  an  accessory  to  her  own  destruction?  The 
sides  were  lining  up — for  battle  over  the  body  of  American  democracy. 

The  Northern  program  was  clear.  Primarily,  Webster's  teachings,  dis- 
crediting the  once  generally  accepted  'right'  of  secession,  must  be  drummed 
into  a  holy  cause.  Even  as  an  equal  in  the  Union,  the  South  proved,  as 
Calhoun  aptly  pointed  out,  a  constant  'conservative  check.'  Seceded,  free 
to  set  her  own  terms,  her  position  would  be  intolerable  to  the  North.  As 
Myndert  Van  Schaick,  a  leading  New  York  merchant  and  one-time  anti- 
slavery  leader,  put  it:  the  'dissolution  of  the  Union  would  transfer  some 
of  our  best  customers  to  another  market.'  Thus,  it  was  absolutely  essen- 
tial to  both  'the  English  money-lender  and  to  his  New  York  jackel  that 
the  Union  should  be  preserved.5  x 

It  is  fantastic  to  assume,  as  have  some  Southern  extremists,  that  the 
North  actually  plotted  to  push  the  South  into  secession — thus  to  insure 
her  conquest  and  subjugation.  War  and  secession  would  destroy  one  of  the 
best  markets  Northern  business  had.  As  Calhoun  pointed  out  with 
increasing  potency  during  the  years,  cotton  capitalism  and  finance  capital- 
ism, rivals  though  they  were,  were  at  the  same  time  indispensable  to  each 
other.  And  indispensable  to  both  was  the  preservation  of  slavery. 

Calhoun  sensed  this  last,  although  he  did  not  fathom  its  details.  For 
business  leaders  during  most  of  Calhoun's  lifetime  were  violently  opposed 
to  slavery.  They  had  been  'foremost5  against  its  expansion  since  Missouri 
Compromise  days.  They  had  denounced  the  representative  principle  in  the 
Constitution,  which  counted  each  slave  as  three-fifths  of  a  voter.  They 
would  term  the  Texas  annexation  a  'crowning  curse,'  with  nearly  'every 


XXI  YEARS   OF   DECISION  333 

important  merchant  in  New  York'  joining  in  a  mass  meeting  calling  for 
i'No  annexation  of  Texas'  unless  there  be  'proper  guards  against  slavery.'  "2T 

Yet  in  the  four-year  period  prior  to  1850,  they  indulged  in  as  strange  a 
reversal  of  political  practice  and  moral  principle  as  is  to  be  found  in  all 
American  history.  The  Wilmot  Proviso  of  1846 — with  its  unequivocating 
demand  that  the  Missouri  Compromise  be  dropped  and  slavery  forbidden 
in  all  territories  west  of  the  Rio  Grande — worked  the  right-about-face. 
Northern  business  had  no  intention  of  losing  its  Southern  market.  And  the 
fury  over  the  Proviso  measure  would  show  how  near  secession  an  aroused 
and  united  South  might  go  if  pushed  to  the  wall  on  the  slavery  question. 

But  this  was  only  half  the  story.  For  the  hideous  truth  is  that  not 
Charleston,  not  Savannah,  no  Southern  port,  but  New  York  City  itself, 
became  'the  greatest  slave-trading  mart  in  the  world.'  ** 

The  illegal  slave-trading  merchants  were  the  successful  merchants.  It  was 
they  who  reaped  profits  of  $175,000  in  a  single  voyage;  and  the  New 
York  business  houses  that  supplied  the  capital.  New  York  builders  launched 
the  ships — one  hundred  in  six  months  alone.  'The  trade'  revitalized  the 
New  York  shipping  industry — became  'almost  a  recognized  branch  of 
business/ 

Southerners  like  Calhoun  might  plead  for  enforcement  of  the  anti-slave- 
trade  laws.  Alexander  H.  Stephens  would  wonder  if  the  trade,  outlawed 
by  an  outraged  public  opinion  since  the  turn  of  the  century,  should  not  be 
legalized  and  restored,  as  the  only  possible  means  of  controlling  the  piti- 
less horrors  of  the  'bootleg'  slave-trading  vessels.  And  twenty  years  after 
this  period,  Senator  William  H.  Seward  of  New  York,  striving  hopelessly 
to  tighten  the  anti-slave  laws,  admitted  that  the  unconquerable  pressure 
against  him  came,  'not  so  much  from  the  Slave  States  as  from  the  Com- 
mercial interests  of  New  York.'  * 

Calhoun  was  no  man  to  underestimate  the  humanitarian  appeal  of  the 
slave  question.  But  he  knew  equally  well  that  Northern  business  would 
support  slavery,  so  long  as  slavery  profited  Northern  business.  The  'great 
and  crucial'  point,  as  he  had  seen  ten  years  before,  was  'the  industry  of 
the  country.'  If  the  South  would  sacrifice  its  patriotism  to  slavery,  so  would 
the  North  sacrifice  its  principles  to  business — this  Calhoun  understood 
perfectly.  From  the  Northern  moral  viewpoint,  slavery  was  'a  great  wrong/ 
But  business  had  'become  adjusted  to  it  .  *  .  millions  and  millions  of 
dollars  .  .  *  would  be  jeopardised  by  any  rupture  between  the  North  and 
the  South.'  Abolition,  or  Southern  secession  to  prevent  abolition,  would 
cost  the  businessman  of  the  North  the  mighty  profits  which  he  gleaned 
from  the  slave  labor  of  the  South.  The  North  could  not  'afford'  to  let  the 
abolitionists  overthrow  slavery.30 

And  Northern  business  had  the  press,  and  the  power,  and  the  politicians 
to  turn  public  opinion  against  abolitionism — thus  reasoned  Calhoun.  Con- 


334  JOHN  C-   CALHOUN 

vinced  as  lie  was  that  abolitionism  would  rend  apait  the  Union  he  loved, 
he  shrank  at  no  means  to  avert  the  disaster.  Would  the  North  sit  by  and 
watch  the  South  'destroy  a  business  system  which  had  been  built  up  over 
so  many  years'?  Aggressions  were  not  to  be  met  by  compromises.  They 
could  be  withstood  only  by  counter-attacks,  by  an  appeal  to  the  cupidity 
in  the  heart  of  man. 

If  the  North  could  be  made  to  see  her  own  self-interest  threatened,  then 
she  would  back  down.  Not  principles,  but  profits,  Calhoun  reasoned,  were 
the  keystone  to  Northern  policy.  The  threat  of  secession  was  the  South's 
weapon.  If  Northern  leaders  permitted  unchecked  abolitionist  agitation 
to  threaten  Southern  institutions  and  Southern  prosperity,  then  the  South 
could  equally  threaten  Northern  institutions  and  Northern  prosperity. 

Unfortunately,  the  Southern  leaders  could  not  resist  flourishing  their 
weapons.  cWe  join  with  Northern  labor  in  its  resistance  to  Northern  capi- 
tal,5 boasted  Francis  Pickens.  Even  more  dangerous  to  the  South  was 
Pickens's  and  Hammond's  threat  to  expose  the  'white  slaves  of  the  North' 
by  circulating  among  them,  abolitionist  style,  incendiary  pamphlets  on  the 
power  of  the  ballot  box,  and  the  ways  and  means  by  which  labor  could 
combine  and  overthrow  its  masters.  'When  gentlemen  preach  insurrection 
to  the  slaves/  trumpeted  Pickens,  'I  warn  them  ...  that  I  will  preach 
.  ,  .  insurrection  to  the  laborers  of  the  North.7  Added  Hammond,  'Our 
slaves  are  hired  for  life  .  .  .  there  is  no  starvation,  no  begging,  no  want 
of  employment.  .  .  .  Yours  are  hired  by  the  day  and  scantily  compen- 
sated.' 81 

The  Northern  challenge  had  been  accepted,  the  Southern  challenge 
thrown  down.  Calhoun  had  mapped  his  program — mapped  it  on  political 
lines.  The  union  of  Whig  planters  and  Whig  businessmen  must  be  ended 
and  the  South  united  in  a  single  party — and  not  just  as  the  junior  partner 
of  the  North.  For  only  a  united  South  could  compel  a  reckoning. 


-    3 

The  stand  that  Calhoun  had  taken  required  a  degree  of  moral  courage,  no 
less  than  the  physical  courage  he  had  displayed  five  years  before.  It  was 
not  enough  to  defy  the  power — political,  financial,  social — of  the  entire 
North;  he  was  now  at  war  with  the  entire  Whig  planting  hierarchy.  Even 
McDuffie  was  appealing  to  the  'wealth  and  intelligence'  of  the  North  for 
friendship  and  protection.  Thomas  Cooper,  in  constant  touch  with  Biddle, 
was  beating  the  drums  in  Charleston,  where  a  speaker  was  booed  down 
who  had  declared  labor  to  be  'the  only  True  Source  of  Wealth.' 32 

Most  painful  of  all  to  Calhoun  personally  was  the  possibility,  as  a  friend 
warned  him,  that  even  his  own  state  might  desert  him.  He  faced  it  charac- 
teristically. 'I  never  know  what  South  Carolina  thinks  of  a  measure.  I  never 


CALHOUN  IN  MIDDLE  AGE 

From  the  portrait  by  G.  P.  A.  Healy  in  the  Museum  of  Fine 

Arts,    Richmond,    Virginia.    Photograph    by    the    Metropolitan 

Museum  of  Art 


XXI          YEARS  OF  DECISION  335 

consult  her.  I  act  to  the  best  of  my  judgment  and  according  to  my  con- 
science. If  she  approves,  well  and  good.  If  she  does  not,  or  wishes  anyone 
else  to  take  my  place,  I  am  ready  to  vacate.'  And  he  said:  'Democracy,  as 
I  understand  it  and  accept  it,  requires  me  to  sacrifice  myself  jor  the  masses, 
not  to  them.  Who  knows  not  that  if  you  would  save  the  people,  you  must 
often  oppose  them?' M 

Only  ghosts  walked  with  Calhoun  at  Fort  Hill  in  that  summer  of  1837, 
ghosts  of  Jefferson,  of  John  Taylor,  and  James  Madison,  who  at  eighty-six 
had  sensed  the  'permanent  incompatibility  of  interest  between  the  North 
and  the  South/  which  might  'put  it  in  the  power  of  popular  leaders,  to  unite 
the  South  on  some  critical  occasion.' 34 

The  occasion  had  arrived. 

Calhoun's  stand  was  not  wholly  selfless.  He  was  still  in  his  prime,  only 
fifty-five,  and  ambition  still  strong  within  him.  So  low  had  his  political 
fortunes  ebbed  during  nullification  that  any  open  discussion  of  his  Presi- 
dential aspirations  would  have  seemed  ridiculous.  Yet  he  still  had  hope,  in 
a  politically  united  South  and  a  South  united  to  laboring  or  Western 
allies.  Consciously,  he  would  not  let  himself  think  about  the  matter;  and 
when  weary,  often  voiced  his  hopes  that  permanent  retirement  would  not 
be  far  off.  'Agriculture,'  he  wrote  wistfully,  'is  a  delightful  pursuit.'  * 

Nevertheless,  jealous  Whig  leaders  would  confuse  his  undeniable  am- 
bitions with  the  equally  undeniable  dangers  that  confronted  Southerners 
of  all  political  faiths.  Calhoun's  coldly  realistic,  fine-spun  thinking  was  too 
subtle  for  the  booted  and  spurred  'cotton  snobs'  riding  the  crest  of  the 
romantic,  white-columned,  land-poor  'Deep  South.'  Nor  could  they  have 
accepted  his  doctrines  had  they  understood  them,  for  they  knew  who  held 
their  purse  strings.  Not  until  the  eighteen-fif  ties  would  they  unite,  realizing, 
too  late,  that  Calhoun  had  all  along  known  where  their  power  lay. 

Unpleasant  realities  loomed  before  Calhoun  as  he  arrived  in  Washington 
for  the  Special  Session  of  the  Twenty-Fifth  Congress,  called  by  Van  Buren 
for  September  4,  1837,  to  take  action  on  the  financial  crisis.  The  stand  he 
had  chosen  meant  pocketing  his  pride,  more  painful  than  any  other  sur- 
render to  a  man  of  his  proud  temperament.  It  meant  doing  what  he  had 
not  had  strength  to  do  with  Jackson,  allying  himself  with  Martin  Van 
Buren,  whom  he  hated  more  than  he  had  ever  hated  Jackson;  for  whom, 
moreover,  he  felt  a  searing  contempt.  It  meant  steeling  himself  against  the 
taunts  of  men  like  David  Campbell,  who  wrote  that  'so  reckless  a  game' 
as  Calhoun's  could  'lead  to  nothing  but  hopes  of  reward— probably  the 
Presidency/ se  Most  of  all,  it  meant  being  misunderstood;  but  he  was  used 
to  that,  and  prepared  for  it.  He  had  made  his  decision  alone.  He  came  back 
to  Washington  to  fight  it  out — alone. 


336  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 


During  the  summer,  while  Calhoun  had  been  reaching  his  decisions  at 
home,  the  panic  was  running  its  course.  By  September,  Van  Buren  was 
faced  with  an  empty  Treasury  and  a  monetary  situation  shrieking  for 
action.  The  Whigs  and  Nicholas  Biddle  were  moving  in  for  the  kill.  All 
of  Andrew  Jackson's  war  on  the  Bank,  they  gloated,  all  of  Biddle's  ap- 
parent defeat,  had  borne  this  fruit  of  depression;  and  the  people,  suffering 
but  unable  to  understand  the  complexities  of  finance,  were  ready  to  return 
to  the  Bank  system. 

Van  Buren's  answer  was  quite  the  reverse.  Unmoved  by  abuse,  unswayed 
by  demands  for  either  relief  or  retreat,  the  realistic  little  Dutchman  stolidly 
prepared  to  correct  the  underlying  causes  of  the  dtbdcle. 

Jackson's  lieutenant  could  hardly  return  to  the  system  in  the  downfall 
of  which  he  himself  had  played  so  large  a  part.  Not  a  recharter  of  the 
Bank,  but  a  complete  'divorce'  between  the  government  and  banks  was 
what  Van  Buren  requested  in  his  message  to  the  Special  Session.  Drained 
by  the  panic,  only  six  state  banks  were  still  paying  specie  by  the  fall  of 
1837.  As  no  government  funds  could  be  deposited  in  non-specie-paying 
banks,  the  'Sub-Treasury*  system  had  been  established  de  facto.  Now  Van 
Buren  requested  the  legalization  and  official  establishment  of  the  system — 
the  final  divorce  of  government  and  the  'money  power'  which  Calhoun  had 
decided  was  essential. 


So  closely  had  Calhoun  guarded  his  decision  that  H.  L.  Hopkins. wrote 
Rives  as  late  as  September  11,  1837,  that  a  rumor  that  Calhoun  would 
support  Van  Buren's  Sub-Treasury  Bill  'has  caused  much  anxiety  among 
the  Whigs.  They  cannot  believe  it,  nor  can  I.' S7  But  when  the  worst  was 
known,  and  Calhoun  on  October  3  voiced  his  support  of  Van  Buren's  plan, 
B.  W.  Leigh  summed  up  for  the  chagrined  Whigs  with  the  comment  that 
now  'one  ought  not  perhaps  to  be  surprised  at  anything  he  may  do.' M 

'He  has  destroyed  himself,'  confidently  announced  one  observer,  laboring 
under  the  belief  that  his  hopes  and  the  facts  were  synonymous. 

'He  has  thrown  himself  under  a  falling  party,  and  will  be  crushed 
beneath  it5 

'His  State  will  sustain  him.3 

'Never.  He  is  the  victim  of  blasted  ambition,  and  will  never  rise  again/  w 

From  far-off  Charleston,  Thomas  Cooper  sent  assurances  to  the  dark  man 
with  the  classic  face  in  the  Greek  temple  at  Philadelphia.  'I  am  giving 
you  what  leading  .  .  .  men  „  ,  „  say.  Calhoun  is  rather  borne  with  than 


XXI  YEARS   OF  DECISION  337 

supported.  He  has  talent,  but  without  tact  or  judgement.'  Even  McDuffie 
would  'go  with  us  ...  if  it  were  not  for  personal  regard  to  Mr.  Cal- 
houn.'40 

Congress  was  in  an  uproar.  Feverishly  Biddle  moved  'to  instruct  the 
Senate';  to  goad  Webster  and  to  whip  Clay  into  a  filibuster.  Actually  the 
whole  Sub-Treasury  system  had  been  functioning  for  months  'without 
causing  the  slightest  disturbance.'41  None  of  the  evils  forecast  had  oc- 
curred— or  did  occur.  But  if  Calhoun,  as  charged,  had  supported  the  Sub- 
Treasury  as  an  attempt  to  weaken  Northern  business  interests,  Biddle 
himself  had  acknowledged  the  fact  of  his  grip  upon  the  national  economy. 
'This  insane  Sub-treasury  scheme/  wrote  'Emperor'  Biddle,  'is  urged  for- 
ward to  break  down  all  the  great  interests  of  the  country.' 42 

But  Calhoun  was  not  beaten.  Actually  he  had  more  support  than  he 
knew.  Even  Benton  agreed  with  him  that  the  accumulation  of  funds  in 
the  North  'had  enabled  that  section  to  ...  make  the  South  tributary 
.  .  .  for  a  small  part  of  the  fruits  of  their  own  labor.' And  from  the  Hermit- 
age bitter  Andrew  Jackson,  ratting  at  the  'combined  money  power  of  the 
aristocracy,'  could  say,  'I  am  happy  .  .  .  Mr.  Calhoun  got  right.  .  .  . 
I'll  not  throw  the  least  shade  over  him.  To  err  is  human,  to  forgive, 
divine.'43 

'My  means  of  control/  Calhoun  wrote,  near  this  period,  'is  to  march 
directly  forward,  fearless  of  consequences  ...  to  develope  our  doctrines 
.  .  .  with  the  intention  of  forcing  them  on  those,  with  whom  I  act,  by 
controlling  publick  sentiment.'  No  ordinary  politician's  method  this,  yet, 
to  the  astonishment  of  friend  and  foe,  with  virtually  the  'whole  delegation 
of  South  Carolina  .  .  .  against  the  Sub-Treasury  Bill/  Calhoun's  plan 
worked.44 

There  was  no  rest  for  him  in  his  brief  vacation  between  sessions.  He  had 
no  time  to  dream  in  the  lazy,  grape-scented  air,  to  watch  the  blue  haze 
curl  around  the  foothills;  or,  soft-stepping  behind  his  dogs,  hear  the  whirr 
of  the  partridge  wings  as  the  birds  flashed  up  from  the  underbrush.  There 
were  too  many  men  to  persuade  and  cajole,  crowds  pushing  in  on  him, 
day  and  night,  so  that  in  Columbia  on  his  return  trip  he  sat  up  past  one 
o'clock  to  write  to  Anna  Maria.45 

He  had  gauged  public  sentiment  accurately.  Within  twelve  months  even 
the  most  chagrined  of  Whigs  was  compelled  to  admit  Calhoun's  'powerful 
agency  in  bringing  about  the  present  success  in  some  parts  of  the  coun- 
try.' *  Watching  in  silent  dismay,  not  unmixed  with  wonder,  Daniel  Web- 
ster reported  defeat  to  Biddle.  'Calhoun  is  moving  heaven,  earth,  etc.,  to 
obtain  Southern  votes  for  the  measure.  He  labors  to  convince  his  Southern 
neighbors  that  its  success  will  relieve  them  from  their  economic  dependence 
on  the  North.  His  plausible  and  endless  persuasion  .  .  .  and  the  power 
and  patronage  of  the  Executive  have  accomplished  more  than  I  thought 
possible.'  Even  more  remarkable  was  the  public  patience,  for  as  to  the 


33S  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

immediate  financial  emergency  neither  Calhoun  nor  Van  Buren  had  com- 
fort to  offer.  'We  have  had  the  pleasure  of  getting  drunk/  remarked  the 
South  Carolinian,  'and  now  experience  the  pain  of  becoming  sober/  47 


He  was  laboring  to  his  utmost,  physically  and  mentally.  He  was  living  in 
a  sort  of  vacuum  of  hard  work  in  which  the  clamor  of  Washington  society 
sounded  in  his  ears  like  far-off  echoes.  What  pleasures  he  had  were  vicari- 
ous. 'I  was  quite  refreshed,  my  dear  Anna,'  he  wrote,  'with  the  account 
you  gave  me  of  the  .  .  .  wedding  parties  and  gay  hours  which  you  have 
spent.  .  .  .  My  life  for  the  last  month  .  .  .  has  been  one  of  incessant  toil 
and  labour,  without  relaxation  or  amusement  of  any  description  whatever. 
I  held  the  fate  of  the  country,  by  the  confession  of  all,  in  my  hand,  and  had 
to  determine  in  what  direction  I  should  turn  events  hereafter.  ...  I  can 
say  nothing  about  the  gayety  of  Washington.7  ** 

In  Congress,  however,  Calhoun  was  meeting  the  sheer  fury  of  Henry 
Clay.  Clay  had  a  right  to  be  angry.  Here  was  Van  Buren,  his  Administra- 
tion shattered.  Here  was  the  Senate,  almost  equally  divided,  with  Calhoun's 
following  holding  the  balance  of  power.  And  now,  at  the  moment  of  Clay's 
greatest  triumph,  when  Biddle  seemed  about  to  deliver  a  staggering  blow 
to  the  reeling  body  of  Jacksonism,  here  was  Calhoun,  the  traitor,  swinging 
his  forces  over  to  Van  Buren's  side!  The  Whigs  had  saved  Calhoun  in  his 
own  disaster;  now  he  had  turned  their  triumph  into  defeat.  Would  Henry 
Clay  sit  by?  He  would  not. 

Had  Clay  better  understood  his  erstwhile  friend  he  might  have  realized 
that  in  Calhoun,  when  personal  and  political  loyalties  conflicted,  there 
was  no  question  as  to  where  his  duty  lay.  He  would  have  been  forced  to 
admit  that  Calhoun  never  pledged  himself  to  the  Whig  cause.  On  the 
contrary,  more  than  once,  he  had  arisen  in  the  Senate  to  declare:  'I  stand 
utterly  disconnected  with  either  one  of  the  great  parties  now  striving  for 
power/49  Time  and  again  he  had  refused  to  declare  himself  a  Whig, 
pledged  himself  only  to  support  any  group  that  accorded  with  his  con- 
stitutional views.  'We  are  determined  to  preserve  our  seperate  existence/ 
he  had  told  Pickens  in  1834.  'Our  position  is  strong.  No  measure  can  be 
taken  but  with  our  assent,  where  the  administration  and  the  opposition 
parties  come  into  conflict.' 50 

^  But  Clay  wasted  no  time  in  thinking.  In  January  and  February  of  1838, 
his  frenzy  burst  all  bounds.  He  charged  into  Calhoun  with  a  ruthlessness 
that  appalled  even  the  most  hardened  of  Senatorial  observers.  Turn- 
coat/ was  the  mildest  of  the  epithets  he  flung  at  him.  He  taunted  him 
with  the  friends  he  had  lost  and  the  company  he  kept.  He  sneered  at  the 
'metaphysical'  subtleties  of  the  Calhoun  mind;  'too  much  genius  and  too 


XXI  YEARS  OF  DECISION  339 

little  common-sense.'  He  raked  up  all  Calhoun's  somersets  and  delinquen- 
cies: the  tariff,  the  National  Bank,  internal  improvements,  not  missing  one, 
from  1815  on.  And  with  it  all  he  brought  into  play  his  matchless  oratorical 
equipment,  the  grace  of  his  long,  swaying  body,  the  music  of  his  voice,  the 
wit,  the  ridicule,  all  the  weapons  that  he  employed  so  skillfully,  and  that 
Calhoun  possessed  not  at  all.51 

It  was  a  great  show.  It  was  perhaps  too  good  a  show.  It  was  merciless. 
Spectators  gasped  at  Clay's  power,  but  it  was  Calhoun,  silent  and  un- 
bending, to  whom  they  gave  their  sympathy.  They  looked  at  him  with 
wonder.  What  was  he  thinking?  Clay's  thrusts  had  hurt  him;  only  he 
knew  how  deeply.  His  pride  was  too  touchy,  his  feelings  too  intense  to 
bear  this  attack  without  pain.  And  he  knew  that  he  was  no  match  for 
Clay's  double-edged  repartee,  his  one,  two,  and  into  your  vitals,  with  six 
wounds  bleeding  before  you  could  marshal  your  forces  for  a  single  blow. 
So,  when  the  long-drawn  tension  of  it  was  over  and  the  Senate  stirred,  then 
silenced  to  hear  Calhoun's  reply,  the  Carolinian  would  not  speak  ...  not 
now.  He  would  give  Clay  as  'good  as  he  sent,'  but  not  for  a  few  days. 

On  March  10,  Calhoun  took  the  floor.  It  was  a  high  occasion  that  con- 
fronted him  and  he  felt  it  keenly.  Not  since  1833  had  he  so  girded  himself 
for  an  effort.  He  was  fully,  perhaps  overly,  convinced  that  he  was  de- 
fending himself,  not  only  before  the  Senate,  but  before  the  bar  of  history. 

No  one  could  have  been  a  greater  contrast  to  Clay.  He  was,  as  he  had 
always  been,  'dignified,  restrained,  with  no  effort  at  display.'  Even  Benton 
congratulated  him  on  his  high  plane  of  speaking,  writing  afterward  that 
the  address  was  'profoundly  meditated  .  .  .  the  style  .  .  .  terse,  the 
logic  close;  the  sarcasm  cutting.  ...  It  was  .  .  .  masterly.'  52 

Step  by  step  he  countered  Clay's  charges.  If  he  had  sired  the  original 
National  Bank,  had  he  not  in  1816  opposed  a  cfar  more  dangerous  bank/ 
recommended  by  Alexander  Dallas,  founded  entirely  upon  United  States 
stocks,  and  'lending  our  credit  to  the  bank  for  nothing,  and  borrowing  it 
back  at  six  per  cent'? 

He  would  scorn  to  denounce  a  man  on  account  of  his  intellect,  'the 
immediate  gift  of  our  creator.'  He  could  not  accuse  Clay  of  possessing  those 
'powers  of  analysis  and  generalization  .  .  .  (called  metaphysical  by  those 
who  do  not  possess  them)  which  .  .  .  resolve  into  their  elements  .  .  . 
masses  of  ideas.  .  .  .  The  absence  of  these  higher  qualities  is  conspicuous 
throughout  the  whole  course  of  the  Senator's  public  life  ...  we  ever  find 
him  mounted  on  some  popular  .  .  .  measure,  which  he  whips  along, 
cheered  by  the  shouts  of  the  multitude.  ...  To  the  defects  of  understand- 
ing which  the  Senator  attributes  to  me,  I  make  no  reply.  .  .  . 

'Instead  of  leaving  not  a  hair  on  the  head  of  my  arguments,  as  the 
Senator  threatens  ...  he  has  not  even  attempted  to  answer  a  large  por- 
tion.' Nor  did  he  'restrict  himself  to  a  reply.  ...  He  introduced  personal 
remarks.  ...  I  addressed  myself,  when  I  was  last  up,  directly  and  ex- 


340  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

clusively  to  the  understanding,  carefully  avoiding  every  remark  which  had 
the  least  personal  or  party  bearing.  In  proof  of  this,  I  appeal  to  you, 
Senators.  .  .  .  But  it  seemed  that  no  caution  on  my  part  could  prevent 
what  I  was  so  anxious  to  avoid.  ...  I  shall  be  compelled  to  speak  of 
myself.753 

Suddenly  Calhoun's  long-constrained  passions  broke  loose.  Before  a 
Senate,  transfixed  with  surprise,  he  stood,  every  muscle  tensed,  his  fore- 
head wet,  his  eyes  'flashed  lightning.'  He  had  a  high  stake  to  plead  for, 
his  own  reputation;  and  he  pled  now  in  a  'burning  flood  of  indignation,' 
such  as  men  had  not  heard  from  him  since  the  days  of  nullification.5* 
Issue  by  issue,  year  by  year,  he  picked  up  Clay's  charges,  and  hurled  them 
down  again.  He  scorned  to  recognize  as  'his  friend7  the  'Senator  from 
Kentucky.'  He  scorned  to  notice  the  watered-down  version  of  Clay's  re- 
marks, which  on  a  belated  second  thought  the  Senator  had  prepared  for 
the  press.  He  would  answer  the  words  as  Clay  had  spoken  them. 

The  Senator  very  charitably  leaves  it  to  time  to  disclose  my  motive  for 
going  over!  I,  who  have  changed  no  opinion,  abandoned  no  principle,  and 
deserted  no  party.  The  imputation  sinks  to  the  earth.  ...  I  stamp  it  with 
scorn  in  the  dust.  I  hurl  it  back.  What  the  Senator  charges  unjustly,  he 
has  actually  done.  He  went  over  on  a  memorable  occasion,  and  did  not 
leave  it  to  time  to  disclose  his  motive.'  *  55 

The  slur  was  too  much  for  Clay.  The  battle  was  on  again,  day  after  day, 
charges  and  counter-charges,  insults  and  sneers.  The  Senate  was  mortified, 
the  galleries  delighted,  at  this  spectacle  of  two  of  America's  greatest  Sena- 
tors, mauling  and  abusing  each  other.  They  rehashed  the  Compromise  of 
1833,  Calhoun  haughtily  claiming  that  it  was  he  who  had  dictated  the 
terms,  he  who  had  'gloried'  in  his  own  strength. 

'The  Senator  from  South  Carolina  was  in  any  condition  other  than  that 
of  dictating  terms/  snapped  back  Clay.  'Those  of  us  who  were  here  .  .  . 
recollect  well  his  haggard  looks  and  his  anxious  and  depressed  countenance.' 
He  had  been  forced  to  yield  on  point  after  point.  He  was  helpless.  He  had 
even  been  forced  to  compromise  with  'the  Senator  from  Missouri.' 

Calhoun  bridled.  He  shot  Clay  a  look  of  hatred,  so  defiant,  so  wild,  that 
to  one  observer,  writing  years  afterward,  it  seemed  as  vivid  as  yesterday. 
'I  feel  not  the  least  gratitude  towards  him,'  he  declared.  The  Compro- 
mise was  'necessary  to  save  the  Senator,  politically.  Events  had  placed  him 
flat  on  his  back.  .  .  .  The  Senator  was  flat  on  his  back  and  couldn't  move. 
I  wrote  more  than  half  a  dozen  letters  home  ...  to  that  effect.  /  was  his 
master.  I  repeat  it,  sir,  /  was  his  master.  ...  He  went  to  my  school.  He 
learned  from  me.9 

Clay  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  charged  toward  Calhoun  and  men  fell  back 
from  him  as  he  ran.  He  brought  himself  up  sharply  before  the  rigid  figure 

*  Reference  to  the  'bargain-corruption*  story. 


XXI  YEARS   OF   DECISION  341 

of  the  South  Carolinian.  He  drew  back.  He  shook  his  finger  in  Calhoun's 
face.  'He,  my  master!'  He  drew  back  further,  still  pointing.  'He,  my 
master!'  He  drew  back  against  the  wall,  arm  outflung,  voice  acid  with 
contempt.  'He,  my  master!'  and  the  silence  quivered  as  his  voice  played 
across  it. ' Sir,  I  would  not  own  him  as  a  slave! ' ** 


Particularly  infuriating  to  the  Southerner,  Henry  Clay,  were  Calhoun's 
assumptions  of  Southern  leadership.  'What  right  had  the  Senator  to  ... 
speak  for  the  whole  South?'  What  right  had  he  even  to  speak  for  the  'gal- 
lant little  State  of  South  Carolina?'  Had  not  even  his  own  colleagues  de- 
serted him?  He  was  utterly,  completely  alone. 

Calhoun's  head  lifted  in  pride.  Yes,  he  had  dared  defy  South  Carolina 
'for  whom  I  feel  a  brother's  love.'  He  had  dared  to  stand  alone,  'as  the 
Senator  sneeringly  says.'  But  he  had  had  his  vindication,  and  it  was  from 
South  Carolina  herself.  'Resolved,'  ran  a  resolution  passed  by  the  Legisla- 
ture that  winter  of  1838,  'that  this  State  has  seen,  with  great  satisfaction, 
the  steady  and  consistent  adherence  of  her  Senator,  John  C.  Calhoun,  to 
the  well-known,  avowed,  and  mature  principles  of  the  State,  and  they 
accord  to  him  their  deliberate  and  strong  approval.'  Clay's  and  Preston's 
charges  against  Calhoun  of  'going  over  to  the  enemy'  were  indeed  'awk- 
ward,' added  the  Charleston  Mercury,  'since  an  immense  majority  of  the 
people  of  South  Carolina  concur  with  Mr.  Calhoun  in  his  opinions  as  to 
the  currency.  .  „  .  Accusations  made  against  Mr.  Calhoun  apply  also  to 
the  Legislature  and  people  of  the  State.' 57 

So  now,  his  voice  broken  with  emotion,  Calhoun  could  proudly  say:  'I 
underestimated  the  intelligence  and  patriotism  of  my  ...  noble  State. 
I  ask  her  pardon  .  .  .  that,  in  being  prepared  to  sacrifice  her  confidence, 
as  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life,  rather  than  disobey  the  dictates  of  my 
judgment  and  conscience,  I  proved  myself  worthy  of  being  her  repre- 
sentative.' 

Clay  remained  unmollified.  But  Calhoun  wearied  of  the  give-and-take, 
if  the  energetic  Kentuckian  did  not.  And  it  was  Calhoun  who  at  last 
'pleasantly  put  an  end  to  it  by  saying  he  saw  the  Senator  from  Kentucky 
was  determined  to  have  the  last  word,  and  he  would  yield  it  to  him.' w 
Nevertheless,  the  final  honors  went  to  Calhoun.  For  the  Sub-Treasury  Bill 
became  law,  July  4,  1840,  and,  although  repealed  by  the  Whigs  the  follow- 
ing year,  it  was  re-enacted  in  1846. 


342  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 


8 

Burdened  though  Calhoun  was,  he  did  not  fail  to  write  long  and  cheerful 
letters  to  Anna  Maria.  For  Anna  had  been  ill  since  her  pregnancy,  far 
more  ill  than  she  had  dared  let  her  father  know,  and  inadvertently  learn- 
ing the  facts,  he  was  'pained5  at  this  'mistaken  state  of  feelings.  .  .  .  You 
need  never  fear,  my  dear,'  he  told  her  gently,  'that  I  would  think  you 
egotistical,  should  you  speak  ever  so  much  of  yourself.  There  is  nothing 
that  concerns  you  that  is  indifferent  to  me.7 

Months  dragged  into  a  year,  but  Anna  Maria  did  not  recover.  En- 
couragement, not  warning,  was  the  note  in  her  father's  letters  now.  'Nature 
was  always  at  work  to  repair  derangements  in  our  system,'  and  with  her 
youth  there  was  'much  to  hope.'  He  longed  to  be  home  'with  you  and  to 
aid  in  keeping  up  your  sperits.  .  .  .  These  annual  absences  from  those  most 
dear  to  me  are  a  great  drawback  which  nothing  but  a  deep  sense  of  duty 
could  make  tolerable.' 

He  laid  little  stress  on  his  political  cares.  He  wrote  of  what  he  thought 
would  interest  and  amuse  her,  of  Lord  Morpeth's  visit,  of  his  'Mess/  of 
the  'sharp  .  .  .  clear'  weather  and  the  sleighs  racing  by  in  the  white 
streets  outside.  Though  'exceedingly  uneasy'  about  her,  he  struggled  to 
hide  his  concern.  He  sent  her  his  magazines,  hoping  that  she  might  find 
something  to  amuse  herself  and  to  pass  away  the  time.  He  had  not  read 
them.  'As  highly,  my  dear  ...  as  I  prize  a  letter  from  you,'  he  told  her, 
'I  do  not  write  this  with  the  view  of  getting  an  answer.  I  know  how 
fatiguing  writing  must  be  to  you,  and  you  must  not  think  of  writing  me  in 
reply.' 

He  wrote  her  of  Charles  Dickens,  the  dandified  young  Cockney,  with  his 
corkscrew  curls  and  glittering  rings,  whom  Washington  Irving  had  dis- 
missed as  'flash  as  a  riverboat  gambler.'  But  Calhoun  thought  him  'nothing 
in  the  slightest  degree  offensive.'  He  saw  'a  good  deal'  of  both  Dickens 
and  'his  lady,'  for  the  Englishman  had  brought  letters  of  introduction,  and 
although  Calhoun  knew  nothing  of  Dickens's  writings  and  Dickens  nothing 
of  Calhoun's  politics,  the  personal  liking  between  the  men  was  instantane- 
ous.59 

Of  the  social  festivities  of  the  capital,  Calhoun  could  write  little.  His 
health  was  just  adequate  for  the  demands  he  made  upon  it;  he  had  no 
surplus  energy  for  late  hours  or  the  slightest  irregularity  in  his  living 
habits.  'I  take  good  care  of  myself,  exercise  regularly  when  I  can,  and 
rarely  go  out  in  the  evening,'  he  wrote  his  anxious  family. 

It  was  an  age  of  heavy  eating,  heavy  drinking,  heavy  dosing,  and  of 
almost  complete  disregard  for  hygienic  living.  Against  this  background 
Calhoun's  Spartan  regime  seems  surprisingly  modern.  He  'detested  stimu- 


XXI  YEARS   OF  DECISION  343 

lants.'  He  scorned  doctors  or  medicines.  His  addiction — when  well  past 
sixty — to  three-  or  four-mile  daily  walks  in  the  heat  of  a  Washington 
August,  and  cold  baths  in  January,  astounded  his  sedentary  colleagues,  and 
does  more  credit  to  his  zeal  than  to  his  common-sense;  for  tuberculosis 
had  already  made  inroads  upon  his  wiry  frame.  Early  as  1834  he  began 
writing  home  of  the  'distressing'  colds,  'accompanied  by  cough/  which  were 
becoming  'usual'  with  him.  Undoubtedly,  his  condition  was  aggravated  by 
his  mental  agitation;  modern  psychologists  would  co-relate  the  Mark 
forebodings'  that  so  haunted  his  later  years  with  the  steady  decline  of  Ms 
strength.  Yet  through  his  'judicious  dietetics  .  .  .  eating  and  drinking 
lightly,' 60  and  regular  hours  of  rest  and  sleep,  he  probably  enjoyed  better 
general  health  than  more  vigorous  men  who  lived  with  less  restraint. 

He,  who  had  been  so  strait-laced  in  youth,  was  now  delighted  that  his 
boys  were  going  to  dancing  school.  Dancing,  he  commented,  *was  almost 
indispensable  ...  for  the  happiness  ...  of  the  two  sexes.  .  .  .  Tell 
James  that  he  must  not  dispair  of  contracting  graceful  accomplishments. 
All  he  wants  is  to  try.'  In  his  brief  vacations  he  grasped  eagerly  at  the 
pleasures  his  Washington  labors  denied  him.  At  an  Abbeville  party  he 
looked  with  keen  interest  at  'a  beautiful  array  of  fine-looking  fashionable 
girls,  far  more  than  I  could  have  expected.' 61 

Calhoun  has  never  received  any  undue  share  of  credit  for  being  a  ladies' 
man.  Certainly  neither  then  nor  later  was  he  a  gallant.  He  had  a  good 
Southern  appreciation  of  a  pretty  face  and  a  trim  waistline,  but  there 
was  none  of  Henry  Clay's  middle-aged  romanticism  about  him.  Yet  a 
contemporary  was  amazed  to  find  that  'in  the  company  of  ladies'  this 
austere  figure  'was  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  charming  men  in  the 
world.' 62 

Apparently  the  ladies  thought  so.  Calhoun  had  always  a  strong  attraction 
for  women,  especially  witty,  sparkling,  intelligent  women,  like  Mrs.  Porter 
and  Mrs.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  or  his  own  mother-in-law.  But  with 
girls  and  young  women  there  was  a  gentleness  in  his  attitude  that  was 
most  appealing;  it  was  in  such  contrast  to  his  iron  and  fire  on  the  Senate 
floor.  The  father  who  could  write  with  such  tender  understanding  to  his 
sick  daughter  could  show  as  much  interest  in  a  girl's  embroidery  as  in  a 
statesman's  politics.  Jefferson  Davis's  young  bride,  Varina,  would  find 
him  so  fatherly  and  understanding  that  in  their  first  five  minutes  of  ac- 
quaintance, she  was  telling  him  how  much  she  missed  her  mother!  He 
had  a  gift  for  sensing  the  wishes  of  those  around  him  and  adapting  his 
conversation  to  them  'with  an  exquisite  tact  and  grace.' 6S 

He  took  an  interest  in  Angelica  Singleton,  a  gay  little  belle,  steeped  in 
compliments,  who  being  the  youngest  in  the  'Mess'  was  confessedly  'a 
wee  bit  of  a  pet  among  them.'  Henry  Clay  was  seeking  her  avidly  in 
marriage  for  his  son,  but  it  was  the  grave  and  graying  South  Carolinian 


344  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

who  won  her  friendship.  'Mr.  Calhoun/  she  wrote,  'has  been  very  kind 
to  me.'  " 

For  Calhoun  kindness  to  Angelica  was  only  an  incident  in  an  upheaval 
that  shook  Washington  at  this  time,  only  less  than  the  Sub-Treasury  fight. 
Had  John  Calhoun  sauntered  into  a  Washington  drawing  room  with  Peggy 
O'Neil  on  his  arm,  eyebrows  could  have  lifted  no  higher  than  at  the 
report  that  he  had  called  on  President  Van  Buren. 

Actually  there  was  nothing  else  that  he  could  have  done.  He  was  keenly 
aware  of  'the  awkwardness  of  defending  the  political  measures  ...  of 
one,  with  whom  I  was  not  on  speaking  terms.5  But  he  had  his  full  share 
of  explaining  to  do,  even  to  Anna  Maria,  who,  alarmed  at  the  risk  to  her 
father's  standing,  fully  expressed  her  mind.  Calhoun  understood.  'So  far 
from  being  offended,  my  dear  daughter,  the  sentiments  you  have  ex- 
pressed but  elevate  you,  if  possible,  in  my  estimation.'  It  was  the  Presi- 
dent with  whom  he  had  resumed  relations,  not  'Mr.  Van  Buren.' 65 

That  he  had  somerseted  at  the  beginning  of  a  Presidential  campaign 
added  to  the  confusion.  He  was  unswayed  by  the  opinion  of  Duff  Green 
that  the  election  of  William  Henry  Harrison  would  open  'the  brightest 
prospects  you  have  ever  had.'  He  paid  no  heed  to  the  Missourian's  gibe 
that  Van  Buren  would  not  receive  a  single  vote,  'unless  you  are  mad  enough 
to  give  him  the  vote  of  South  Carolina,  but  I  cannot  believe  that  you  will 
commit  suicide  as  this  would  be.'  Mr.  Green  was  soon  to  learn  the  truth 
of  Calhoun's  warning  that,  'having  defined  my  course  ...  it  is  not  in 
the  power  of  man  to  divert  me.'  Not  only  did  Calhoun  and  South  Carolina, 
with  their  unfailing  instinct  for  a  lost  cause,  vote  for  Mr.  Van  Buren; 
but,  although  utterly  'retired  from  the  world  of  fashion  and  amusement* 
and  at  grave  risk  to  his  health,  Calhoun  braved  a  blinding  hailstorm  to 
attend  the  last  Presidential  levee,  'a  thing  I  would  not  have  done  in 
such  weather,  had  not  the  incumbent  been  defeated/  Few  shared  Cal- 
houn's quixotic  gallantry,  however,  and  at  the  White  House  not  even  the 
little  'tabby  cat7  footstools,  'gay  with  their  covering  of  glazed  white  chintz 
and  pink  roses,3  nor  the  old-fashioned  bowls  of  roses  scattered  through 
the  drawing  room,  could  dispel  the  gloom.  'It  was  thinly  attended,'  noted 
Calhoun,  'and,  I  must  say,  dull.'  Nor  were  there  any  refreshments,  which 
he  regarded  'as  a  great  want  of  taste.'  * 

Van  Buren's  defeat  in  1840  was  no  shock  to  Calhoun.  It  was  inevitable. 
For  in  the  first  steam-rollered,  high-pressure  campaign  in  American  history, 
the  country  en  masse  had  given  way  to  an  orgy  of  trapped  red  foxes  and 
running  raccoons,  of  log  cabins  in  every  town  and  barrels  of  hard  cider 
on  every  street  corner.  Rallies,  twenty  thousand  strong,  gorged  on  barbe- 
cue and  cider  roared: 

'With  Tip  and  Tyler, 
We'll  bust  Van's  Biler.' 


XXI          YEARS   OF   DECISION  345 

'Ole  Tip,  he  wears  a  homespun  shirty 
He  has  no  ruffled  shirt,  wirt  wirt. 
But  Matt,  he  has  the  golden  plate. 
And  he's  a  little  squirt — wirt,  wirt! 

Calhoun,  who  had  charged  Van  Buren  with  no  more  than  being  a  sneak 
and  'a  weasel/  learned  now  that  his  old  enemy  ate  from  golden  plates, 
perfumed  his  whiskers,  stuffed  his  pouter-pigeon  form  into  boned  corsets, 
and  wore  the  carpet  bare  before  mirrors  where  he  surveyed  his  masculine 
charms.  Under  the  magic  of  campaign  song  and  story,  even  poor  old 
William  Henry  Harrison,  the  Virginia  aristocrat,  was  transformed  into  a 
cider-guzzling,  buckskinned  fugitive  from  the  frontier.  If  the  Democrats 
had  their  'hero  of  New  Orleans/  the  Whigs  had  their  hero  of  Tippecanoe, 
'and  Tyler,  too,'  the  brilliant,  horse-faced  Virginian,  put  on  the  ticket  to 
wean  the  Jackson-Calhoun  forces  from  the  ranks  of  the  Democracy.  And 
for  the  final  onslaught,  Daniel  Webster  'profaned5  the  sacred  soil  of 
Virginia,  weeping  loudly  that  he  had  not  been  born  in  a  log  cabin  1  OT 

Even  'the  ladies'  armed  themselves  for  war,  in  a  display  of  'Sub-Treasury 
brooches/  each  cameo  adorned  with  a  little  strong-box  and  a  tiny  blood- 
hound, chained  to  the  huge  locks.  'Mr.  Van  Buren/  so  'the  fair'  had  ex- 
plained eagerly,  'wants  to  set  these  dogs  on  your  family.'  * 

Having  gone  through  the  scurrilities  of  the  Jackson  campaign,  Calhoun 
had  few  illusions  as  to  the  ways  and  means  by  which  popular  sovereignty 
selects  its  leaders.  Yet  the  horseplay  of  'Tippecanoe  and  Tyler,  too/  was 
enough  to  shock  even  him.  What  lay  behind  it  all? 

He  might  have  been  enlightened  had  he  glanced  at  the  files  of  Nicholas 
Biddle's  correspondence.  'Let  him'  (Harrison),  so  spake  the  High  Com- 
mand, 'say  not  one  single  word  about  his  principles — let  him  say  nothing. 
.  .  .  Let  no  ...  convention — no  Town  Meeting  ever  extract  from  him  a 
single  word  about  what  he  thinks  now,  or  will  do  hereafter.  Let  the  use  of 
pen  and  ink  be  wholly  forbidden.'  * a9 

He  might  have  said  as  much  for  brain  power.  America  had  no  time  for 
thinking  in  those  gorgeous  and  gaudy  weeks.  The  High  Command  was 
doing  the  thinking.  The  American  public  was  jumping  through  the  hoops. 


In  February,  1841,  Harrison,  followed  by  a  large  and  steadily  increasing 
army — this  time  of  office-seekers — arrived  in  Washington.  Calhoun  called, 
and  although  embarrassed  by  the  President-elect's  familiar  greeting,  'as  if 

*  This  directive,  actually  issued  for  the  1836  campaign,  in  which  Harrison  was  de- 
feated, was  used  to  better  effect  in  1840. 


346  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

we  had  been  old  cronies/  he  was  struck  with  how  frail  and  dependent  the 
old  man  seemed.  'As  unconscious  as  a  child  of  his  difficulties  and  those  of 
his  country,  he  seems  to  enjoy  his  election  as  a  mere  affair  for  personal 
vanity/  Calhoun  wrote  Anna  Maria.  'It  is  really  distressing  to  see  him.' 
A  day  or  two  later,  in  his  Senate  seat,  Calhoun  felt  a  tap  on  his  shoulder. 
He  swung  around,  and  'low  and  behold  it  was  the  President-elect.5  Keenly 
aware  of  the  'awkwardness  of  the  situation/  Calhoun,  with  the  eyes  of 
the  entire  Senate  fixed  upon  him,  rose  and  led  the  way  to  the  lobby,  where 
he  was  rescued  from  'the  most  familiar  kind  of  conversation  ...  by 
others  coming  up.  I  have  given  .  .  .  this  little  incident  as  characteristic. 
...  the  only  hope  is  that  he  may  be  perfectly  passive  and  leave  it  to 
the  strongest  to  take  control.' 70 

Calhoun  was  left  no  time  to  reflect  on  who  'the  strongest'  might  be. 
Within  twenty-four  hours  after  Harrison's  inaugural,  all  Washington  was 
laughing  over  the  picture  of  Daniel  Webster,  flung  on  a  sofa,  exhausted 
from  the  labor  of  killing  twelve  Roman  Pro-Consuls  'dead  as  smelts'  in 
the  inaugural  which  he  had  rewritten  for  Harrison.  In  the  Senate  the 
cock  of  Kentucky  was  crowing  over  his  flock  as  if  it  were  he,  and  not 
Harrison,  who  had  been  elected  President  of  the  United  States. 

Calhoun  watched  him  warily.  Forces  of  history  were  swaying  them,  but 
it  was  man  against  man  still:  Calhoun,  'in  the  full  glory  of  his  intellectual 
magnificence/  Clay,  in  the  pride  of  his  political  power,  but  'restive  as  a 
caged  lion/  Ti 

It  was  the  tariff  on  which  they  warred  again,  still  Calhoun  knew,  'the 
most  vital  of  all  questions.'  Though  the  problem  had  been  pushed  into  the 
background  for  the  past  few  years,  Calhoun  was  still  on  guard  against 
the  plans  of  those  to  whom  a  high  tariff  was  the  very  foundation-stone  of 
the  'American  system.5  Both  the  argument  and  the  facts  were  unaltered.  In- 
dustry still  was  protected,  while  cotton,  rice,  and  tobacco  were  thrown  on 
the  market  of  the  world,  'that  other  branches  should  have  a  monopoly  at 
home.3  Could  not  men  see  that  in  granting  the  government  power  to  reward 
one  interest  and  deny  another,  they  were  giving  it  'unlimited  power  over 
all  the  .  .  .  business  of  the  country'? 

Yet  he  dismissed  suggestions  from  Benton  and  Wright  that  the  tax 
might  be  reduced  on  salt,  iron,  hemp,  and  lead.  To  detach  items  from  the 
whole  list  would  still  benefit  one  industry  at  the  expense  of  another.  If 
salt  were  exempted,  some  other  article  would  bear  the  additional  costs.  If 
the  taxes  were  to  be  taken  off  one,  they  must  be  taken  off  all. 

He  was  not  for  the  ruin  of  the  manufacturers.  'There  is  no  one/  he 
asserted,  'who  puts  a  higher  estimate  on  those  arts,  mechanical  and  chemi- 
cal, by  which  matter  is  subjected  to  the  dominion  of  mind.  I  regard  them 
as  the  very  basis  of  civilization,  and  the  principle  designed  by  Providence 


XXI  YEARS   OF   DECISION  347 

for  the  future  progress  and  improvement  of  the  race.'  And  if  he  sought 
justice  for  the  interest  he  represented,  he  would  be  'ashamed  to  stand 
by  and  see  injustice  done  any  other.  ...  We  cannot,  after  disregarding 
the  interests  of  others  .  .  .  insist  that  they  shall  respect  ours.' 72 

But  these  were  mere  preliminary  skirmishes  for  the  great  battle  of  1842. 
For  Henry  Clay,  'true  to  his  secret,  but  false  to  his  public,  pledges,'  had 
revealed  that  the  compromise  tariff  of  1833,  once  thought  to  be  permanent, 
had  only  been  intended  to  last  seven  years!  In  the  new,  so-called  'Loan 
Bill/  Calhoun  detected  a  variation  of  an  old  theme.  'They  dare  not  go 
directly  for  protection/  he  wrote.  Instead,  they  resorted  to  'every  means 
to  raise  the  expenditures  and  to  cut  off  the  revenues/  to  'prostrate  public 
credit/  through  sheer  'looseness  and  waste/  artificially  to  create  a  need 
for  the  tariff  'they  could  not  openly  obtain,'  The  selfishness  of  the  scheme 
sickened  Calhoun,  yet  he  had  no  illusion  of  reform.  Only  too  well  did  he 
know  'how  vain  it  is  to  urge  arguments  against  the  fixed  determination  of 
a  party.'73 

But  he  would  not  surrender  without  argument.  Obtaining  the  floor  on 
March  16,  1842,  he  smote  the  crux  of  Clay's  contentions  in  his  first  sen- 
tences. The  betrayal,  he  declared,  was  complete.  The  Loan  Bill  would 
'entirely  supersede  the  Compromise  Act.'  In  theory,  he  pointed  out,  the 
gentleman  from  Kentucky's  resolutions  respected  every  provision  of  the 
Compromise  of  1833 — and  in  practice  violated  every  one  of  them! 74 

Even  in  the  heat  of  her  battle,  he  reminded  the  Senate,  South  Carolina 
had  granted  six  or  seven  years  for  gradual  reduction,  solely  to  avoid 
'ruinous  losses'  to  the  manufacturing  interests.  Now  these  same  interests 
have  'turned  on  us.'  Overnight,  duties  were  now  to  be  raised  thirty  per 
cent,  a  move  justifiable  only  if  government  expenditures  were  raised  in  the 
same  ratio,  and  if  these  expenditures  were  necessary.  'It  must  be  shown 
that  all  possible  economy  has  been  done.' 

As  a  high-tariff  man,  the  Senator  from  Kentucky  believed  free  trade  to 
be  among  'the  greatest  curses'  that  could  befall  the  country.  But  had  the 
free-trade  experiment  failed?  Had  it  drained  the  country  of  its  resources 
and  energies?  Calhoun  did  not  believe  it.  In  the  tentative  free-trade  ex- 
periment just  completed,  what  were  the  facts?  Calhoun  supplied  them. 
American  exports  up  sixty  per  cent.  Lowell  cotton  manufactures  up  twenty- 
five  per  cent  in  a  single  year.  Fifty  per  cent  more  in  American  raw  materi- 
als were  being  purchased  by  American  manufacturers;  in  eight  years  a 
double  amount  of  cotton  had  been  shipped  into  Boston  Harbor  alone.  Yes, 
'the  great  staple  interest  of  the  South  and  the  great  manufacturing  interest 
of  the  North  may  be  reconciled.' 

Importation  of  foreign  cotton  goods,  conversely,  had  dropped  fifty  per 
cent  in  a  single  year.  Yet  the  cotton  manufacturing  interests  were  flooding 
Congress  with  petitions  for  high  tariffs.  Why?  The  more  duties  were 


348  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

lowered,  the  cheaper  the  cost  of  production  at  home,  the  larger  the 
market  abroad.  Tobacco  exports?  Up  forty-three  per  cent.* 

True,  all  acknowledged  the  great  poverty  and  'distress  in  the  Southern 
regions.'  Clay  could  attribute  it  to  the  low  tariff,  but  for  Calhoun  it  was  the 
result  of  the  indebtedness  of  cthe  States,  Corporations,  and  Industry,  and 
the  sudden  liquidation  of  ...  currency.'  The  nation  had  speculated 
and  lost,  but  distressed  as  the  South  was,  cotton  was  as  high  as  in  1831, 
and  the  planters  when  hard-pressed  could  furnish  themselves  with  almost 
all  of  their  physical  needs.  Nothing  was  more  ridiculous  than  to  blame 
the  national  depression  on  the  low  tariff. 

Free  trade,  Calhoun  concluded,  had  its  foundation  in  truth  itself.  Not 
only  did  it  increase  American  prosperity.  It  held  the  nations  together  cin 
concord.'  Severe  penalties  would  follow  a  departure  'from  its  laws.' 

The  debate  dragged  on  through  the  heat  of  the  summer  of  1842,  and 
in  spite  of  Calhoun's  vigilance,  the  Loan  Bill  was  passed.  It  was  a  disil- 
lusioned and  despairing  man  who  spoke  the  final  word.  This,  he  declared, 
was  worse  than  1828 — worse  because  it  violated  the  pledge  of  Henry- 
Clay  'that  if  we  of  the  South  would  adhere  to  the  Compromise  while  it 
was  operating  favorably  to  the  manufacturing  interests,  they  would  stand 
by  us  when  it  came  to  operate  favorably  to  us.'  During  eight  years  of  re- 
duction, 'an  extraordinary  impulse  had  been  given  to  every  branch  of  in- 
dustry— agricultural,  commercial,  navigating,  manufacturing.'  Without 
foreign  trade  we  would  have  an  oversupply  of  manufactured  products  for 
our  own  country,  and  our  labor  would  be  unemployed.  The  manufacturers 
were  not  alone  to  blame;  the  parasitic  aspirants  for  government  jobs  would 
support  any  means  to  keep  the  Treasury  full — and  themselves  on  the  pay- 
roll. 

The  articles  for  which  manufactured  goods  were  exchanged,  Calhoun 
noted,  bore  light  duties;  and  the  articles  for  which  agricultural  products 
were  exported  bore  high  duties.  For  every  dollar  that  went  into  the 
Treasury,  three  went  to  the  manufacturers.  The  more  industry  was  pro- 
tected, the  more  protection  was  requested. 

Rufus  Choate  retorted  that  the  New  England  mill-owners  were  de- 
pendent for  their  very  existence  on  the  Loan  Bill. 

'Is  such  a  state  of  dependence  on  ...  Government'  consistent  with 
freedom?  queried  Calhoun.  On  this  issue,  he  concluded,  'there  can  be  no 
repose.'  ™ 

Despite  his  momentary  triumph,  Henry  Clay  was  beaten,  and  he  knew 
it.  Destiny  had  ruled  him  out  on  that  rain-streaked  March  day  one  month 
after  the  inaugural  of  1841  when  the  weary  Harrison  had  died,  murmur- 
ing: 'These  applications — will  they  never  cease?'76  Tyler,  the  nullifier; 

*  As  in  the  slavery  chapter,  Calhoun's  speeches  here  are  again  consolidated  with- 
out reference  to  chronology,  hi  order  to  show  his  state  of  mind  on  certain  issues. 


XXI  YEARS  OF  DECISION  349 

Tyler,  the  states'  rights  Democrat;  the  low-tariff  man  whom  Fate  had 
hoisted  into  the  leadership  of  a  Whig  Administration — John  Tyler  was 
President  of  the  United  States. 


10 

Stripped  now  of  all  other  power,  Clay  could  still  make  mischief.  He  mocked 
at  Calhoun:  'There  stood  the  Senator  from  South  Carolina,  tall,  care- 
worn, with  furrowed  brow,  haggard  cheek,  and  eye  intensely  gazing  .  .  .* 
Calhoun,  painfully  embarrassed,  broke  in  with  a  sharp  call  to  order,  but 
the  irrepressible  Kentuckian  went  on:  'Looking  as  if  he  were  dissecting 
the  last  and  newest  abstraction  which  sprang  from  some  metaphysician's 
brain,  and  muttering  to  himself:  "This  is  indeed  a  crisis."  '  The  Senate 
roared  as  Clay  turned  his  battery  on  Benton,  whom  he  described  as  look- 
ing 'at  the  Senator  from  South  Carolina  with  an  indignant  curl  on  his 
lips  and  scorn  in  his  eye,  and  points  his  finger  with  contempt,  saying: 
"He  calls  himself  a  statesman!  Why,  he  has  never  produced  a  decent 
humbug!"' 

Clay  wearied  of  his  sport.  He  could  foresee  no  future  for  himself  in  the 
Senate.  So  on  the  last  day  of  March,  1842,  he  arose  to  say  farewell.  He 
was  an  old  man  now,  'a  gone  coon.'  His  frail  figure  drooped.  His  thin 
hair  was  white.  The  voice,  once  so  vibrant,  so  bell-like,  was  low  and 
weary.  All  mockery,  all  satire,  all  bitterness,  was  gone.  To  all  who  had 
wronged  him,  he  offered  his  forgiveness.  And  if  in  the  heat  of  his  youth, 
in  his  high  passions,  he  had  hurt  others,  could  they  not  forgive  him  now? 

It  was  play-acting,  of  course,  but  great  play-acting.  And  it  was  Cal- 
houn, who  in  six  tense  years  had  not  even  spoken  to  Henry  Clay,  who 
'gave  way,'  and  stood  up,  'the  tears  running  down  his  face.'  As  the  Senate 
stared,  he  crossed  the  Chamber  and  held  out  his  hand.  The  two  old 
friends  embraced,  only  Benton  remaining  unmoved,  showing  'no  more 
emotion,'  Parmalee  declared,  'than  if  he  had  been  made  of  cast-iron.3  77 

'I  don't  like  Henry  Clay,'  Calhoun  said,  afterward.  'He's  a  bad  man, 
an  impostor,  a  creator  of  wicked  schemes.  I  wouldn't  speak  to  him,  but,  by 
God,  I  love  him.' 78  The  remark  is  as  revealing  of  Calhoun  as  of  Clay, 
of  Calhoun's  continual  conflict  between  Scotch  reason  and  Irish  emotions. 
Mentally,  he  disapproved  of  Henry  Clay,  but  emotionally,  he  could  not 
withstand  him. 


11 

A  few  months  later,  Calhoun  himself  quietly  bowed  out  of  the  Senate. 
Like  Clay,  he  made  no  secret  of  his  longing  for  rest  and  retirement;  un- 
like Clay,  he  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  the  secret  that  all  America 


350  JOHN   C*  CALHOUN 

knew — that  both  men  had  retired  for  the  same  purpose.  Both  were  await- 
ing THE  CALL.  As  Calhoun  put  it:  'It  now  remains'  for  the  people  of 
the  United  States  'to  determine  how  long  [I]  shall  continue  in  retire- 
ment.379 

His  need  for  rest  was  genuine.  The  strain  of  the  last  two  summers,  six 
or  seven  hours  a  day  in  the  'breathless'  heat  of  the  Senate  Chamber,  plus 
the  hours  of  study  and  committee  work  outside,  the  mass  of  visitors  and 
the  weight  of  correspondence,  overwhelmed  him  under  the  'heavy  and 
exhausting  work.'  Never  had  his  letters  shown  such  longing  to  'be  quiet/ 
to  be  'released,'  to  be  home. 

Strategically  the  moment  had  come  for  him  to  retreat  with  the  honors 
of  victory.  As  a  Senator,  his  work  was  done.  With  Tyler  in  the  White 
House,  victory  had  been  raked  from  defeat.  Calhoun  saw  his  one  goal,  to 
restore  the  old  'State  rights  Republican  doctrines'  nearer  than  he  had 
dared  hope.  The  tariff  still  threatened;  but  the  program  of  Tyler,  the  re- 
tirement of  Clay,  and  his  own  hopes  that  in  the  Executive  department  he 
might  bring  his  full  program  to  fruition,  had  done  much  to  reinvigorate 
his  faith  in  American  democracy. 

Although  he  spoke  for  the  America  of  the  past,  for  the  ideal,  rather  than 
the  practical,  new  hope  edged  his  words.  'I  am  a  conservative,'  he  boasted ; 
yet  there  were  moments  when  he  was  the  Calhoun  of  earlier  days.  'I 
solemnly  believe,'  he  said,  'that  our  political  system  is,  in  its  purity,  not 
only  the  best  that  was  ever  formed,  but  the  best  possible  that  can  be  de- 
vised for  us.'80 


12 

No  one  but  a  madman — or  Duff  Green — would  have  dreamed  of  running 
Calhoun  for  the  Presidency  in  1844.  For  after  the  break  with  Jackson, 
Calhoun  must  have  known,  even  if  he  later  momentarily  forgot  it,  that  he 
'could  never  be  President.'  But  his  friends  were  his  worst  enemies.  Un- 
fortunately for  his  peace,  Calhoun  inspired  in  them  a  loyalty  which 
could  only  find  expression  in  striving  against  all  hope  and  common-sense 
to  make  him  the  Chief  Executive.  Calhoun  felt  keenly  that  he  had  no 
way  of  rewarding  this  devotion.  But  the  majority  of  them  expected  no 
reward.  Like  fat,  weary  Dixon  Lewis,  they  would  make  Calhoun  President, 
satisfied  that  they  had  done  their  duty  by  him  and  the  country,  'and  then 
.  .  .  retire  to  a  more  private  and  peaceful  life/81 

In  vain  did  Calhoun  protest  in  letter  after  letter,  public  and  private, 
that  he  had  'no  desire'  for  the  office.  His  friends  knew  his  deep  ambition 
and  ceaselessly  nurtured  it.  Letters  to  and  from  Calhoun  reveal  that  not 
since  1822  had  so  concerted  an  effort  been  made,  either  by  his  friends  or 
himself,  to  win  the  Presidency. 


XXI  YEARS  OF  DECISION  351 

Foremost  among  these  supporters  was  Duff  Green  of  Missouri.  The 
Carolinian's  defeats,  Green  regarded  only  as  proof  that  his  own  advice 
had  been  disregarded.  'Had  you  been  advised  by  me/  he  wrote  in  1840, 
with  more  assurance  than  proof,  'you  would  have  been  the  Candidate  in 
opposition  to  General  Jackson,  and  elected  and  the  country  saved  the 
misery  .  .  .  that  followed.  Had  you  been  advised  by  me,  you  would  have 
been  the  most  popular  man  in  the  United  States.' 

Green  railed  at  Calhoun's  'madness'  at  throwing  South  Carolina  to  Van 
Buren  in  1840.  He  raged  at  his  friend's  fastidious  aversion  to  making 
common  ground  with  the  Whigs.  A  hard-headed  realist,  who  saw  elections 
in  terms  of  personalities  rather  than  issues,  it  was  beyond  his  understand- 
ing why  Calhoun,  anti-abolitionist,  anti-consolidationist,  and  anti-Bank, 
could  not  link  his  destiny,  without  regard  to  'political  principles  or  views 
of  policy/82  to  the  abolitionist,  consolidationist,  banking  crowd,  whose 
hatred  for  Van  Buren  and  Jackson  was  as  strong  as  his.  What  mattered 
the  party,  so  long  as  his  own  advancement  was  assured? 

Despite  their  years  of  friendship,  intensified  by  the  marriage  of  Cal- 
houn's son,  Andrew,  to  Green's  daughter,  Calhoun's  answer  was  stern.  'I 
am  sure  that  if  your  letters  would  fall  into  the  hands  of  those  who  are 
to  come  after  us,  they  would  infer  from  .  .  .  the  course  you  recommend 
that  I  was  a  vain,  light-headed,  ill-judging  and  ambitious  man,  ignorant 
alike  of  the  ...  times  and  my  own  strength  .  .  .  aiming  constantly  at 
the  Presidency  and  destined  constantly  to  be  defeated.'  Did  not  Green 
know  that  never,  'even  in  the  heat  of  youthful  years/  had  he  sought 
honor  but  through  duty?  Had  he  ever  'held  out  hopes  of  office  to  those 
who  follow  me?'  Had  he  not  for  years  'knowingly  pursued  a  course  that 
would  sacrifice  my  popularity  .  .  .?  I  did  not  suit  the  times,  nor  the  times 
suit  me.' M  Yet  now,  if  his  friends  still  thought  that  he  only  could  carry 
to  victory  the  causes  for  which  he  had  fought  so  long,  'I  will  not  shirk 
the  responsibility.' 

It  was  1822  all  over  again.  Once  more  the  promises  of  support  were 
ripening  and  falling  into  his  lap — from  North  Carolina,  from  Virginia,  and 
even  New  England — a  triumph  indeed  for  the  apostle  of  nullification  and 
slavery.  Van  Buren  had  lost  the  New  Hampshire  state  convention.  R.  M.  T. 
Hunter  was  urging  New  England  friends  'to  get  up  an  organisation  by 
Congressional  districts.'  From  Lemuel  Williams  came  news  of  the  person- 
nel for  the  forthcoming  state  convention  of  Massachusetts:  Boston,  sixty 
delegates  for  Calhoun,  twelve  for  Van  Buren;  Essex  County,  'the  same 
proportion';  in  Salem,  '10  to  2/  and  'many  other  towns  favorably  heard 
from.'  In  New  York,  where  the  Irish  vote  was  guaranteed  to  the  son 
of  Patrick  Calhoun,  excitement  reached  a  fever-pitch.  Young  Joseph  Sco- 
ville  was  swinging  Tammany  Hall  into  line.  The  mere  appearance  of  a 
letter  with  the  Pendletorr  postmark  at  the  city  post  office  was  known  to 
the  partisans  of  both  Van  Buren  and  Calhoun  long  before  it  had  reached 


352  JOHN   C.    CALHOUN 

the  hands  of  its  recipient.84  And  on  a  September  evening  in  1843,  burly, 
black-haired  Mike  Walsh  arose  before  a  huge  assembly  to  proclaim:  'The 
man  of  my  choice  for  the  next  President  of  the  United  States  is  John  C. 
Calhoun.'  'Protracted  cheering7  followed  his  words,  after  which  the  audi- 
ence sang  out  the  new  campaign  song: 

'Away  down  Sou?  dor,  close  to  de  moon, 

Dere  lives  an  old  chap,  dat  dey  call  Calhoun.'** 

Even  this  was  not  enough  to  satisfy  the  ardors  of  the  New  York  sup- 
porters. Elmore  wrote  Calhoun:  "There  is  a  great  desire  ...  to  know 
more  of  you  .  .  .  your  life  and  services.  Your  speeches  are  inquired  after, 
and  most  of  all  yourself.  They  wish  to  see  and  talk  with  you  and  hear 
you  speak.  These  wishes  .  .  .  cannot  be  resisted.'  ** 

But  Calhoun  resisted  them.  He  would  sacrifice  much  to  further  his  am- 
bition, but  not  even  to  become  President  could  he  conquer  his  instinctive 
repugnance  to  becoming  'a  political  electioneer.  ...  It  may  be  pride,  it 
may  be  fastidiousness  .  .  .  but  ...  I  cannot  help  it/  wrote  the  man,  in 
whom  'Tippecanoe  and  Tyler,  too/  had  roused  no  desire  to  emulate  their 
example.  'I  would  be  happy  to  travel  quietly,  as  an  individual  to  see  my 
friends  .  .  .  but  I  am  averse  to  being  made  a  spectacle  ...  or  to  ... 
indicate  a  personal  solicitude  about  the  office,  which  I  do  not  feel/  He 
would  'abandon  no  principle.  .  .  .  Whether  victorious  or  defeated,  it 
shall  be  on  my  own  ground  ...  I  would  rather  risk  defeat  than  char- 
acter.'8T 

With  a  second  request  he  complied.  Early  in  1843,  the  first  full  length 
'Life'  of  Calhoun  appeared.  The  authorship  was  credited  to  R.  M.  T. 
Hunter,  but  Rhett  contends  that  the  writer  was  Calhoun  himself,  and  that 
when  he  refused  to  'father'  it,  the  book  was  turned  over  to  Hunter.  The 
Virginian  was  said  to  have  inserted  a  page  or  two,  presumably  the 
eulogies,  and  thus  became  the  'putative  author  of  a  work'  that  brought 
him  more  acclaim  than  any  other  act  of  his  life.88 

Any  student  of  Calhoun's  literary  style  can  see  the  difference  between 
his  terse,  rough-hewn  sentences  and  this  smooth-flowing,  wordy  document. 
Certainly  Calhoun  would  have  had  no  reason  to  lie  to  Anna  Maria,  and 
to  her  he  said:  'Mr.  Hunter  has  rewritten  ...  so  much  ...  as  to  be 
.  .  .  entitled  to  the  authorship.'  And  to  James  E.  Colhoun,  he  wrote  of 
the  'Sketch  .  .  .  prepared  by  some  of  my  friends  here.'  Undoubtedly  he 
supplied  the  material  and  blocked  in  the  outline,  and  equally,  without 
doubt,  the  complete  structure  was  edited  by  hands  other  than  his  own.89 
The  book  is  authorized,  not  autobiographical. 

The  campaign  thundered  on.  In  Pendleton,  even  the  Clay  Whigs  voiced 
'regard  for  Mr.  Calhoun  on  his  principles.'  The  press  of  England  was  look- 
ing with  admiration  on  the  candidacy  'of  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men 
in  the  United  States.'  In  1843,  the  Jacksonville,  Alabama,  Republican 


XXI  YEARS   OF   DECISION  353 

lifted  Calhoun's  name  to  the  masthead,  stating  that  his  opinion  was  known 
on  three  great  issues,  the  tariff,  Texas,  and  abolition.90  Had  it  not  been 
known,  his  chances  would  have  been  far  better.  The  era  had  ended  when 
the  people  would  choose  a  President  to  lead  them;  now  the  bosses  chose 
Presidents  to  be  led.  Calhoun  had  every  qualification  for  the  office  of 
President  except  the  most  essential,  which  was  to  have  no  qualifications 
at  all. 

Calhoun  himself  had  read  the  ending  when  he  wrote  Duff  Green  in  1837 : 
'the  very  services,  which  ought  to  recommend  me  ...  constitute  insuper- 
able objections  to  my  election.' 91  In  the  South's  view  he  was  the  'acknowl- 
edged leader  of  the  Democratic  party' ;  he  had  ripped  it  apart,  but  he  had 
sewn  it  together  again,  single-handedly,  and  stamped  it  with  its  old  pat- 
tern of  states'  rights  and  a  low  tariff.  He  had  won  the  victory;  but  none 
knew  better  than  he  that  to  'reap  the  fruits'  was  'a  task  by  no  means  easy.5 

As  in  1822,  it  was  his  own  strength  that  defeated  him  at  last.  Valiantly 
the  Calhoun  leaders  struggled  to  'hold  in'  the  young  men,  lest  'they  be  in- 
discreet in  their  ardor.'  Open  support,  they  knew,  was  paid  for  by  open 
attack.  Wiser  than  their  chief  in  the  ways  of  politics,  they  tried  to  quench 
the  flame  they  themselves  had  kindled.  They  entreated  him  to  'reflect 
earnestly  and  solemnly'  on  the  steps  he  was  to  take.  An  open  break  now 
with  Van  Buren  would  split  the  party  and  focus  attention  on  Calhoun's 
candidacy.  Calhoun  was  trying  to  face  issues  when  the  essence  of  politics 
consisted  in  avoiding  them.92 

Cracks  were  running  across  the  smooth  surface  of  his  hopes.  Would 
the  abolitionist  societies  unite  and  throw  the  balance  of  power  to  a  man 
who  favored  their  principles?  Clay  and  Van  Buren  had  promised  to  'take 
care'  of  their  friends;  would  Calhoun,  with  his  fastidious  aversion  to 
spoils,  do  the  same?  It  was  the  old,  old  story,  the  story  to  which  in  his 
calmer  moments,  Calhoun  had  known  the  ending  all  along. 

A  politician  was  not  to  be  beaten  by  a  statesman.  At  the  almost  in- 
credible resurgence  of  Calhoun  strength,  the  wily  Tied  Fox?  scuttled 
from  his  lair.  If  he  could  not  defeat  Calhoun  on  Calhoun's  ground,  it  was 
he,  and  not  the  South  Carolinian,  who  had  the  power  to  choose  the  ground. 

Van  Buren  had  the  party  organization.  The  power  of  calling  conventions 
lay  with  the  old  committees,  dating  back  to  the  Jackson  days.  Calhoun's 
only  chance  lay  in  a  convention  composed,  not  of  party  hacks,  but  of  in- 
dependent delegates  from  each  Congressional  district.  But  should  Cal- 
houn be  nominated,  Rhett  predicted,  Van  Buren  would  align  himself 
with  the  Whigs. 

As  loyal  James  Hamilton  said,  'nothing  now  remains  but  to  agitate  and 
to  agitate  deeply.9  Lemuel  Williams  promised  Calhoun's  nomination  on 
'an  independent  ticket'  that  would  draw  'Whig  votes  enough  to  carry 
Mass.,  Maine,  and  New  York.'  But  these  ideas  were  vetoed  by  Southern 
party  leaders,  like  Hunter  and  Elmore,  who  warned  against  an  open  rup- 


354  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

ture  with  a  party  that  by  some  'act  of  Providence  or  the  defeat  of  Van 
Buren,  might  yet  surrender,  if  you  have  not  beforehand  made  that  im- 
possible/ 93 

Disgusted  by  the  strife,  Calhoun  made  up  his  mind.  By  April,  1844,  he 
resolved  not  to  let  his  name  cgo  before  a  convention  .  .  .  which  is  not 
calculated  to  bring  out  the  voice  of  the  party.'  Van  Buren's  convention,  he 
knew,  would  throw  the  nomination  Ho  the  large  central  states,'  giving 
them  'control  of  the  Executive  department,  the  ballot,  the  vote,  and  the 
patronage.'  And  what  was  worse,  in  violation  of  pledges,  New  York  Demo- 
crats were  dickering  for  the  support  of  abolitionist  leaders. 

He  knew  what  he  must  do.  It  was  with  the  advice,  of  friends  such  as  Hun- 
ter, who  acclaimed  his  'mode  of  delivering  truth  without  offending,'  that  he 
sent  an  Address  to  the  Central  Committee  in  Charleston,  and  another  to 
the  South  Carolina  Senators,  outlining  his  decision.  'This  act  of  Mr. 
Calhoun's,'  declared  the  New  Aurora,  'has  done  and  will  do  more  to  ele- 
vate him  in  the  estimate  of  the  good  .  .  .  and  the  hardworking  than  any 
act  of  his  life.'  The  Mobile  Tribune  left  his  name  on  the  masthead  as 
'one  who  loves  his  country.'  w 

It  was  all  over.  His  friends  were  warm  in  their  expressions  of  sympathy. 
Macey,  grieved  and  mortified  at  a  hint  that  the  South  Carolinian  might 
take  second  place  to  Van  Buren,  bitterly  declared  that  he  would  rather 
have  Calhoun  lose  a  dozen  Presidencies  than  to  see  'your  great  and  pure 
name'  so  polluted.  He  had  withdrawn  so  that  he  might  be  'preserved  for 
the  future,'  his  friends  assured  him;  only  'for  the  present'  were  the 
'cherished  hopes'  withdrawn.  In  Virginia  his  withdrawal  had  strength- 
ened him  in  the  affections  of  the  people.  Even  Van  Buren  supporters  would 
surrender  next  time.  'The  exhibitions  of  feelings  .  .  .  were  deep,'  wrote 
Hunter.  A  'settled  determination'  had  arisen  'to  make  you  the  President 
next  time,  should  God  spare  you  to  us.' 95 

Letters  were  pouring  in  upon  him  from  men  he  had  never  seen  and 
never  would  see,  men  who  would  fight  for  him  without  stint  and  without 
reward,  solely  because  'of  our  deep  and  ardent  admiration  of  your  talents 
.  .  .  principles  and  character.'  It  was  heart-warming  to  read  tie  words  of 
those  who  'were  willing  to  have  risked  all  ...  and  be  content  to  fall 
battling  for  ...  our  choice';  but  could  not,  'by  abuse  of  your  own  gen- 
erous permission  to  use  your  name,  peril  the  attainment  of  the  destiny 
for  which  you  were*intended.' M 

But  Calhoun  was  not  interested.  Days  were  dark  for  him  in  that  young 
spring  of  1844,  with  his  own  hopes  dying  as  everything  around  him 
throbbed  into  life.  'They  ought  not  to  think  of  rallying  on  me  at  the  next 
election,  unless  it  should  be  found  indispensable  in  order  to  preserve  our 
position,'  was  his  word  to  Hunter.  'I  am  the  last  man  that  can  be  elected 
...  I  am  now  disentangled  from  the  fraudulent  game  of  President  making 
and  hope  never  to  have  to  do  anything  with  it  again.'  Relentless  thoughts 


XXI          YEARS  OF  DECISION  355 

were  hammering  in  his  brain — 1848?  He  might  not  even  be  alive  in  1848. 
He  was  empty  and  bitter  and  very  tired.  He  was  ready  to  retire,  so  he 
had  written;  yet  could  still  tell  James  Edward:  'The  great  point  is  to 
preserve  my  character.  .  .  .  That  may  be  of  service,  hereafter;  not  to 
run  again  as  a  candidate,  but  in  some  greater  emergency/  Meanwhile — 
it  was  time  to  think  about  spring  planting.97 


xxn 

Calhoun  and  the  Lone  Star 


MEN  TOLD  OF  A  LAND  where  the  green  grass  swept  down  to  the  green  sea, 
with  only  a  line  of  foam  to  show  where  one  ended  and  the  other  began. 
Men  told  of  a  sea  of  green  grass  that  swept  straight  to  the  horizon  and 
tolled  into  great  waves  when  the  wind  blew.  Men  told  of  nights,  bright  as 
day,  when  huge  stars  and  glittering  fireflies  turned  the  prairie  into  blue  fire, 
and  bathed  every  wild  rose  and  geranium,  every  blade  of  fine  wiry  grass, 
in  effervescent  light.  Men  told  of  a  lone  star  hanging  over  the  horizon, 
leading  them  on  to  new  dreams  and  new  hopes;  men  told  of  a  great  coun- 
try, fresh  from  the  hand  of  God. 

Texas. 

A  man  named  Stephen  Austin  had  wondered:  'May  we  not  form  a  little 
world  of  our  own,  where  neither  religious,  political,  nor  money-making 
fanaticism  .  .  .  shall  ever  obtain  admission?'  This  was  the  American 
dream,  and  not  Stephen  Austin's  alone.  It  was  the  dream  of  the  first 
Pilgrim  who  set  his  foot  on  the  rock  at  Plymouth,  and  of  the  last  starv- 
ing colonist  of  Roanoke  Island.  It  was  the  dream  of  Pat  Calhoun  and  An- 
drew Jackson,  and  all  the  hard-living,  hard-fighting,  hard-dying  men  and 
women  who  had  braved  the  horrors  of  the  pest-ships  and  broken  their 
youth  against  the  unbroken  wilderness.  It  was  the  dream  that  died  as 
civilizations  developed,  but  was  born  anew  at  the  opening  of  each  frontier. 

Texas  had  been  acknowledged  as  Spanish  territory  in  the  Treaty  of 
1819,  although  Henry  Clay  and  his  followers  were  always  to  contend 
that  the  country  was  included  in  the  Louisiana  Purchase.  Two  years  later, 
Mexico  made  good  her  revolt  from  Spain,  and  the  flag  of  the  Mexican 
Republic  waved  over  the  land  of  the  Lone  Star.  That  same  year  Ameri- 
cans began  pushing  along  the  dusty  tracks  toward  the  Rio  Grande; 
twelve  thousand  of  them  made  the  journey  in  a  single  decade.  They  came 
with  Mexico's  blessing,  and  Stephen  Austin  was  free  to  dream  of  a  yeo- 
man's civilization,  a  New  England  in  a  Southern  climate. 

But  Texas  was  Southern,  after  all,  and  it  was  inevitable  that  Southern 
expansionists  should  look  with  covetous  eyes  upon  that  land — ripe  and 
waiting  for  the  cotton  seed— which  could  bring  them  five  or  six  new 
states,  new  lands  to  replace  the  worn-out  earth  of  the  old  cotton  states, 


XXII  CALHOUN  AND   THE  LONE  STAR  357 

and  the  political  balance  of  power  in  Congress.  And  with  the  South  went 
slavery,  and  the  fear  of  approaching  slavery  drew  the  desired  New  Eng- 
land and  Swiss  and  German  settlers  off  to  the  Ohio  country,  leaving  Texas 
to  those  who  demanded  the  enslavement,  and  not  the  freedom,  of  man. 

Slavery  was  even  behind  the  Texan  struggle  for  freedom — the  epic 
of  the  Alamo.  In  1829,  indifferent  to  the  outcries  of  the  American  set- 
tlers, Mexico  outlawed  slavery,  and  a  year  later  forbade  all  further  im- 
migration from  the  United  States.  It  was  too  late;  Stephen  Austin's 
dream  was  ended.  In  1836  came  the  news  that  shook  the  nation,  news  of 
the  slaughter  of  four  hundred  and  twelve  young  men,  among  them 
the  beloved  Davy  Crockett,  bayoneted  to  death  in  a  little  fort  called  the 
Alamo.  Texas  had  declared  her  independence;  but  this  technicality  mat- 
tered little.  Americans  had  died  in  Texas;  the  little  blood-soaked  fortress 
had  become  a  page  of  American  history. 

From  the  Alamo  on,  it  was  no  longer  a  question  of  whether  Texas 
would  enter  the  Union;  it  was  when.  'Reannexation'  was  'Manifest  Des- 
tiny.' By  1836  Calhoun  could  declare  in  the  Senate  that  he  had  decided 
not  only  'to  recognize  the  independence  of  Texas,  but'  to  favor  cher  ad- 
mission into  this  Union/  Probably  no  man  did  more  than  Calhoun  to 
bring  about  annexation; *  but  the  actual  program  did  not  get  under  way 
until  the  Presidency  of  John  Tyler. 


Perhaps  no  American  President  has  been  more  grossly  underestimated 
than  the  brilliant  Virginian,  Tyler.  His  loyalty  to  his  convictions  dragged 
his  Jtame  into  the  mud  of  party  strife  and  blackened  his  fame  for  years 
to  come.  Yet,  in  1840  at  the  time  of  his  Vice-Presidential  nomination, 
Tyler's  name  had  ca  charm  for  the  Southern  people.'  Cultivated,  polished, 
musical,  a  graduate  of  William  and  Mary  College  at  seventeen,  he  was 
completely  the  aristocrat,  yet  virile  in  mind  and  body.  With  the  con- 
fidence of  birth  and  position,  he  gaily  flouted  social  convention,  and  at  his 
levees  introduced  guests  without  regard  to  precedence,  'most  abominably 
unfashionable.'  His  Virginia  morning  custom  of  an  immense  julep,  'spark- 
ling with  ice,'  charmed  Southerners  and  startled  New  Englanders,  as  he 
would  take  a  swallow,  then  pass  the  glass  to  'a  handsome  daughter  of 
one  of  the  Cabinet  officers/  who  sipped  and  handed  it  on.  In  conversa- 
tional powers,  he  was  said  to  surpass  even  Mr.  Calhoun.2 

Nor  had  Calhoun  been  more  independent  and  far-seeing.  Tyler  had 
remained  in  the  Senate  Chamber  to  vote  against  the  Force  Bill,  when  the 
less  courageous  had  withdrawn.  Tyler  had  resigned  his  seat  rather  than 
obey  the  Virginia  Legislature's  instructions  to  rescind  his  vote  of  censure 
upon  President  Jackson.  Tyler,  not  Calhoun,  as  early  as  Missouri  Com- 
promise days,  had  seen  that  slavery  would  come  to  turn  upon  the  terri- 


358  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

torial  question.  He  had  fired  the  opening  shots  against  the  tariff  and  Na- 
tional Bank,  as  'an  unwarranted  extension  of  the  powers  of  the  govern- 
ment and  an  appeal  to  the  numerical  majority  of  the  North  to  grow 
rich'  at  the  South's  expense. 

Yet  it  was  Calhoun  who  was  credited  with  these  opinions.  For  it  was 
the  unfortunate  truth  that  what  John  Tyler  said  or  did  mattered  very 
little.  Tyler  had  every  quality  that  makes  for  leadership  but  the  quality 
of  leadership  itself.  His  independence  could  be  dismissed  as  mere  eccen- 
tricity or  perversity;  Calhoun,  on  the  floor  of  the  United  States  Senate, 
defying  the  threat  of  arrest  in  his  battle  for  nullification,  captured  the 
imagination  of  the  Southern  people;  taking  the  same  stand  and  voicing 
the  same  opinions,  Tyler  could  lose  and  Calhoun  win  an  army  of  sup- 
porters. 

Cursed  as  he  was  with  this  weakness  in  personal  leadership,  Tyler  had 
done  more  to  weaken  than  to  arouse  enthusiasm  for  the  cause  of  Texas 
annexation.  But  he  had  the  Western  vision;  to  Webster  and  Ashburton 
he  had  suggested  a  treaty  to  annex  California  and  the  Far  West  to  the 
United  States,  hi  exchange  for  setting  the  British  boundaries  at  the  Co- 
lumbia River.  He  had  sent  Tom  Benton's  son-in-law,  dark,  Charleston- 
born  John  Fremont,  to  explore  the  Rocky  Mountain  passes.  He  had  even 
given  support  to  Dr.  Marcus  Whitman,  who  was  leading  wagon  trains 
over  the  peaks  of  the  mountains  to  contest  the  settlements  of  the  Hudson's 
Bay  Company,  far  to  the  North  in  Oregon. 

By  1842,  it  was  a  'public  secret'  that  Tyler  was  working  for  the  annexa- 
tion of  Texas.  By  1843,  his  haste  was  feverish.  In  June,  at  a  World 
Convention'  in  London,  American  abolitionists  urged  the  British  Foreign 
Secretary,  Lord  Aberdeen,  to  encourage  abolition  in  Texas,  and  a  certain 
'Mr.  Andrews'  even  suggested  that  British  abolitionists  buy  the  freedom 
of  Texas  slaves,  receiving  Texas  lands  in  exchange.  All  this  Duff  Green 
communicated  to  the  Secretary  of  State,  Abel  Parker  Upshur,  in  a  private 
letter  that  summer,  and  by  August  matters  were  moving  swiftly.  Tyler, 
convinced  that  England  was  seeking  to  wage  war  against  Southern  'in- 
stitutions/ wrote  Minister  Waddy  Thompson  in  Mexico  that  it  was  be- 
ing plotted  abroad  to  make  'Texas  a  dependency  of  London.' s  On  Aug- 
ust 18,  Lord  Aberdeen  told  the  House  of  Lords  that  'We  desire  to  see 
slavery  abolished  in  Texas.'  * 

At  Fort  Hill,  Calhoun  kept  his  finger  close  on  the  pulse  of  events. 
Openly  he  took  no  part.  To  the  horror  of  his  closest  friends,  he  had  a 
short  while  before  actually  declined  the  post  of  Secretary  of  State,  when 
Webster's  indifference  to  territorial  expansion  at  last  necessitated  his 
withdrawal  from  Tyler's  official  family.  The  time,  Calhoun  had  said,  was 
not  'propitious'  for  Texas  annexation;  the  unpopularity  of  Tyler  was 
militating  against  the  drive;  but  all  knew  what  was  really  in  his  mind.5 
No  better  issue  than  Texas  could  be  imagined  for  a  Presidential  cam- 
paign, and  it  was  as  a  prospective  candidate  that  Calhoun  was  kept  well 


CALHOUN  AND  THE  LONE  STAR  359 

supplied  that  summer  with  important  information.  Ashbel  Smith,  the 
Texas  Charg6  <T Affaires  at  London  and  Paris,  wrote  him  details  of  his 
conversations  with  Lord  Aberdeen,  passing  on  his  lordship's  frank  admis- 
sion that  Her  Majesty's  government  desired  abolition  throughout  the 
world;  although,  of  course,  without  interfering  'improperly'  upon  the  sub- 
ject. An  excerpt  from  Lord  Aberdeen's  dispatch  to  the  British  Charge 
d'Affaires  in  Mexico  offered  Great  Britain's  mediation  'on  the  abolition 
of  slavery  in  Texas'  as  ca  great  moral  triumph  for  Mexico.'  Britain  de- 
sired such  abolition,  'mainly  in  reference  to  its  future  influence  on  slavery 
in  the  United  States.' 

Duff  Green,  too,  sent  his  findings  to  Calhoun,  and  both  to  him  and 
Secretary  Upshur,  the  South  Carolinian  replied  that  they  could  not  place 
'too  much  importance  upon  British  designs.'  She  was  using  all  her  'diplo- 
matic arts,'  her  whole  purpose,  Calhoun  believed,  being  for  a  monopoly 
of  the  cotton  trade.  'She  unites  in  herself  the  ambition  of  Rome  and  the 
avarice  of  Carthage.' 6 

Yet  Calhoun  still  warned  against  'premature'  attempts  at  annexation; 
and  when  in  December,  1843,  Thomas  Gilmer  attempted  to  draw  him  out 
with  the  words  that  'On  a  question  of  such  magnitude,  it  is  not  meet,  that  a 
voice,  which  for  more  than  thirty  years  has  been  heard  ...  on  all  public 
questions,  should  be  silent,'  he  merely  replied  that  his  opinion  had  often 
been  expressed.  Annexation  was  'accessary  to  the  peace  and  security'  of 
both  Texas  and  the  United  States,  and  any  objections  that  it  would  ex- 
tend slavery  'must  be  met  as  a  direct  attack  on  the  Constitution.' 7  More, 
he  would  not  say. 

Meanwhile,  Destiny  took  a  hand  in  the  affair. 


Among  the  'gay,  young  belles'  of  the  capital  in  the  winter  of  1844  was  a 
girl  of  twenty-four,  named  Julia  Gardiner.  She  was  tall,  with  a  full  figure 
and  the  bearing  of  a  Greek  statue  in  her  flowing  gowns.  Grecian,  too, 
were  the  classic  lines  of  her  nose  and  mouth  and  the  poise  of  her  oval- 
shaped  head,  crowned  with  a  load  of  dark  braids  and  a  thin  gold  coronet, 
set  with  one  pure  diamond,  which  she  wore  like  a  star  in  the  middle  of 
her  forehead. 

But  she  was  no  statue.  She  was  radiantly  alive,  warm  color  glowing 
in  her  cheeks  and  lips,  her  round  gray  eyes  under  the  sweep  of  dark 
brow,  alert  and  sparkling.  Her  gaiety  was  slightly  tempered  by  the  death 
of  President  Harrison,  but  as  she  wound  a  bit  of  black  crgpe  around  her 
wrist,  in  token  of  'the  hero  of  Tippecanoe,'  she  certainly  never  dreamed 
that  she  herself  would  become  the  First  Lady  of  the  United  States. 

Her  preference  for  older  men,  however,  was  marked.  Her  interest  was 
piqued  by  that  incorrigible  bachelor,  'handsome,  portly'  James  Buchanan, 


360  JOHN    C.    CALHOUN 

who  would  cast  her  stealthy  glances  while  adjusting  his  necktie.  She 
was  not  even  immune  to  Henry  Clay's  aging  but  potent  charms.  But  it  was 
the  widower,  President  John  Tyler  himself,  with  his  'high-toned  nature 
and  graceful  bearing,3  who  won  her  warmest  'schoolgirl'  admiration.8 

On  February  28, 1844,  with  spring  already  greening  the  hills  above  Wash- 
ington, Julia  Gardiner  was  one  of  a  gay  group  of  ladies  and  officials  who 
boarded  the  new  warship  Princeton  for  a  trial  cruise  down  the  Potomac. 
Below  in  the  cabin,  she  sparkled  and  smiled,  a  young  man  on  either  side. 
She  paid  little  heed  to  their  chatter;  she  had  eyes  only  for  the  tall  figure 
of  the  President,  ears  only  for  his  'sweet,  silvery'  voice. 

Toast  after  toast  was  drunk,  laughter  sounding  over  the  dull  roar  of 
the  boiler.  Secretary  Upshur  jovially  lifted  an  empty  bottle.  'The  dead 
bodies  must  be  removed  before  I  can  offer  my  toast/  he  remarked. 

Laughing,  the  captain  passed  him  another  bottle.  'There  are  still  plenty 
of  living  bodies,'  was  his  answer.9  A  moment  later,  the  Secretary  of  State 
swept  his  cloak  about  him  and  started  for  the  deck  where  Secretary  of 
the  Navy  Gilmer  and  Senator  Benton  were  awaiting  him.  Would  the 
President  join  them?  The  President  smiled.  He  preferred  to  remain  below. 

It  happened — a  gigantic  roar  that  split  the  universe  as  a  large  gun  ex- 
ploded. It  tossed  the  ship  like  a  leaf,  sent  President,  men  and  women 
tumbling  into  a  struggling  heap  upon  the  deck.  For  a  moment  the  hush 
held;  then  rose  the  sound  of  screaming. 

A  man  reeled  down  the  ladder.  'The  Secretary  of  State  is  dead!' 

Julia  sprang  up.  'Let  me  go  to  my  father.' 

Someone  held  her.  The  words  beat  like  waves  against  her  numbed  brain. 
Secretary  Gilmer  was  dead.  And  Representative  Maxcy.  Senator  Benton 
was  hurt,  but  still  living.  Mr.  Gardiner  .  .  . 

Julia  struggled  to  escape.  'My  father  loved  me  and  would  want  me  near 
him.'  A  woman  stepped  to  her  side.  Her  voice  broke  with  pity.  'My  dear 
child,  you  can  do  no  good.  Your  father  is  in  Heaven.' 

Then  Julia  Gardiner  fainted.  A  man  caught  her  as  she  fell,  held  her 
against  his  dark  coat,  carried  her  up  through  the  hatch  into  the  air  and 
off  the  stricken  ship.  When  she  came  to,  she  was  in  President  Tyler's  arms. 

Tyler  was  fifty-four;  Julia  thirty  years  his  junior.  But  he  courted  her 
with  the  ardor  of  a  younger  man,  and  to  the  hero-worshiping  girl,  emo- 
tionally undeveloped  despite  her  social  maturity,  he  seemed  more  and 
more  to  take  the  place  of  the  father  she  had  lost.  Before  the  year  was 
out,  they  were  married  at  a  High  Nuptial  Mass  of  the  Catholic  Church 
in  New  York,  and  the  wags  were  singing: 

'Texas  was  the  captain's  bride, 
Till  a  lovelier  one  he  took; 
With  Miss  Gardiner  by  his  side, 
He,  with  scorn,  on  kings  may  look! 10 


XXH  CALHOUN  AND  THE  LONE   STAR  361 


Secretary  Upshur  was  dead.  Upshur  had  wanted  Texas,  but  he  had  fum- 
bled. Although  proposing  a  treaty  of  annexation  as  early  as  1843,  he  had 
not  dared  commit  the  United  States  to  military  protection  of  the  Lone 
Star  Republic  should  the  Mexican  and  the  European  Powers  find  ne- 
gotiations unpleasant.  A  dilemma  confronted  Mr.  Upshur  the  day  that 
Destiny,  or  an  exploding  gun,  relieved  him  of  all  earthly  concerns. 
Who  could  finish  the  work?  One  man  took  it  upon  himself  .  .  . 

By  dawn  of  February  29, 1844,  the  self-appointed  instrument  of  Destiny, 
dour,  square-jawed  Henry  Wise  of  Virginia,  left  his  rooms.  His  dull  blue 
eyes  were  aglow  with  purpose.  To  him  the  tragedy  of  the  day  before  was 
providential.  Destiny  had  blazed  the  trail  for  the  annexation.  Without 
Texas  the  South  was  doomed;  of  this  Wise  was  convinced.  Texas  could 
save  the  South  and  the  Union,  and  for  such  an  end  the  audacious  Vir- 
ginian would  waste  few  scruples  upon  his  means. 

He  hurried  to  the  lodgings  of  George  McDuffie  of  South  Carolina. 
The  Senator  was  still  in  bed,  but  shuffled  out  in  robe  and  bedroom  slippers 
to  receive  his  guest.  Wise  whirled  upon  him.  Would  Mr.  Calhoun  take 
Upshur's  post,  solely  for  the  annexation  of  Texas?  McDuffie  did  not 
think  so.  Wise  persisted.  In  all  probability  Mr.  Calhoun's  name  would 
be  sent  to  the  Senate  that  very  day.  McDuffie  must  beg  him  not  to  de- 
cline. The  South  Carolinian  settled  himself  at  his  desk. 

A  few  moments  later,  Wise  arrived  at  the  White  House.  Tuning  against 
the  mantel  of  the  breakfast  room  was  Tyler,  shaken  and  'humbled  at  his 
escape,3  a  newspaper  in  his  hand.  The  President  greeted  his  friend  in  a 
tremulous  voice,  then  ' turned  his  face  to  the  wall  in  a  flood  of  tears.'  "• 

Wise  had  no  time  for  sympathy.  The  moment  demanded  action.  Now 
all  party  factions  would  be  stilled  and  Presidential  nominations  approved. 
'Your  most  important  work  is  the  annexation  of  Texas,  and  the  man  for 
that  ...  is  Mr.  Calhoun.  Send  for  him  at  once.' 

Tyler  stiffened.  His  pride  was  still  smarting  from  the  rebuff  of  Cal- 
houn's  earlier  refusal;  he  had  no  desire  for  a  repetition.  Nor  was  he  in 
any  mood  to  have  his  Cabinet  hand-picked  for  him.  His  voice  was  firm. 
'No,  Texas  is  important,  but  Mr.  Calhoun  is  not  the  man  of  my  choice.' 

During  breakfast,  Wise  wrestled  with  his  problem.  What  if  Tyler  nomi- 
nated someone  else  before  Calhoun  received  McDuffie's  letter?  What 
would  Calhoun  do?  What  would  the  President  do?  His  own  position 
would  be  intolerable.  Immediately  the  tasteless  meal  was  over,  he  picked 
up  his  hat,  walked  over  to  the  President  and  bade  him  ca  lasting  fare- 
well. ...  I  have  done  that  which  will  forfeit  your  confidence,'  he  an- 


362  JOHN  C.  CALHOUN 

nounced  dramatically.  He  had  done  both  the  President  and  Mr.  Calhoun 
'a  great  wrong,  and  must  go  immediately  to  Mr.  McDuffie  to  apologize/ 

'What  do  you  mean?3 

Wise  explained.  He  had  told  McDuffie  'to  write  to  Mr.  Calhoun  and 
ask  him  to  accept  the  place  of  Secretary  of  State  at  your  hands.' 

'Did  you  say  you  went  at  my  instance?' 

'No  .  .  .  but  my  act  as  your  known  friend  implied  as  much,  and  Mr. 
McDuffie  was  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  ask  me.  ...  I  went  .  .  . 
without  your  authority,  for  I  knew  I  could  not  obtain  it;  and  I  did  not  tell 
Mr.  McDuffie  ...  for  I  knew  he  would  not  have  written.  ...  I  can 
hardly  be  your  friend  any  longer,  unless  you  sanction  my  unauthorized 
act  .  .  .' 

Tyler  sprang  from  his  chair,  threw  both  hands  over  his  head.  'Wise, 
you  have  not  done  this  thing!  You  cannot  have  done  this!'  He  paced  the 
floor,  struggling  to  control  his  anger.  'You  are  the  most  exasperating 
man  ...  the  most  wilful  and  wayward.  ...  No  one  else  would  iiave 
done  it.  ...  You  are  the  only  man  who  could  have  done  it.  ...  Take 
the  office  and  tender  it  to  Mr.  Calhoun;  I  doubtless  am  wrong  in  refusing 
the  services  of  such  a  man,' ** 

Tyler's  surrender  was  complete.  On  March  6,  he  wrote  Calhoun  that 
he  had  'unhesitatingly'  nominated  him,  in  view  of  his  'great  talents  and 
deservedly  high  standing  with  the  Country  at  large.  ...  I  hope/  con- 
cluded the  vanquished  Executive,  'that  you  will  be  immediately  at  my 
side.'13 

That  same  day  the  nomination  was  sent  to  the  Senate.  Within  a  few 
hours  all  Washington  knew  that  Calhoun  was  the  nominee.  On  the  floor 
of  Congress  business  was  hushed  and  the  clerks  droned  on  unnoticed.  Men 
gathered  in  groups,  whispering  and  talking.  In  the  House  the  crowd  was 
thickest  around  the  gigantic  four-hundred-and-fifty-pound  bulk  of 
Dixon  Lewis  of  Alabama,  as  man  after  man  pushed  through,  begging  him 
to  write  Calhoun  to  accept.  Lewis  dipped  his  quill.  'I  have  never  seen 
stronger  evidence  of  complete  unanimity  .  .  .  that  you  are  ...  the  only 
man  to  meet  the  crisis.'  Even  the  Whigs  'say  so.' 

He  had  stirring  news  before  his  letter  ended.  Without  Calhoun's  knowl- 
edge, without  even  referring  his  name  to  a  committee,  the  South  Caro- 
linian had  been  unanimously  confirmed  as  Secretary  of  State.  'Every- 
one is  delighted,'  Lewis  concluded.  'The  Leaders  .  .  .  dislike  and  dread 
you  ...  but  of  the  Van  Buren  men  ...  I  believe  that  three  fourths 
of  them  are  more  friendly  to  you  than  to  him.'  To  Crall6  he  wrote, 
'Providence,  rather  than  Tyler,  has  put  Calhoun  at  the  head  of  this  great 
question.'  Of  Mr.  Wise's  assistance  to  Providence,  he  had  nothing  to  say.14 


CALHOUN  AND  THE  LONE  STAR  363 


It  was  spring  at  Fort  Hill,  green  misting  the  tree-tops,  the  gardens  a  golden 
blaze  of  sunlight  and  forsythia.  The  winter  rains  were  over  now  and  wind 
blew  through  the  windows.  It  stirred  the  letters  on  Calhoun's  desk,  letters 
from  men  in  all  corners  of  the  United  States,  of  all  political  faiths  and  all 
walks  of  life.  They  had  been  pouring  in  for  days,  sometimes  thirty  in  a 
single  mail.  And  all  sounded  one  theme:  the  Southern  hotheads  were 
clinging  to  the  hope  of  Texas  as  drowning  men  to  a  straw.  The  Charleston 
Mercury  acclaimed  Calhoun  as  'the  moral  property  of  the  nation';  even 
the  New  York  Herald  and  Niles*  Register  stressed  the  'entire  unanimity' 
with  which  the  nation  sought  his  services. 

Most  persuasive  were  the  inducements  of  personal  friends;  of  Lewis 
with  his  hint  that  'a  ground  swell  from  the  people  themselves  growing 
out  of  the  Texas  question  may  roll  you  into  the  position  of  a  candidate'; 
the  fervor  of  young  Francis  Wharton:  'Looking  at  you  once  more  as  the 
representative  of  the  Union  as  a  whole  will  open  the  old  fountains  of  af- 
fection. There  was  a  time  when  Pennsylvania  would  have  voted  for  you 
by  acclamation — that  time  may  come  again.  .  .  .  The  Secretaryship  of 
War  made  you  the  second  man  in  the  affections  of  the  nation;  the  Secre- 
taryship of  State  will  make  you  first.5 15 

All  this  clamor  dwindled  into  hollow  echoes  in  the  ears  of  Calhoun. 
How  different  this,  from  1817!  Then  he  had  been  a  last-minute  choice,  his 
best  friends  distrustful  of  his  abilities;  but  he  himself  afire  with  youth, 
intensity  of  purpose,  and  confidence  in  his  powers.  Today  his  purpose 
still  burned;  his  self-confidence  was  heightened,  if  anything,  by  his  skill- 
ful use  of  his  strength.  Difficulties  were  still  challenges  to  him;  he  never 
looked  at  the  obstacles,  but  only  at  the  goal.  Of  his  capacity  to  carry 
through  what  was  perhaps  the  most  difficult  task  of  diplomacy  since  the 
purchase  of  Louisiana,  he  had  no  doubts  at  all. 

But  long-continued  defeat  had  dimmed  his  enthusiasm  for  any  but  the 
highest  office  of  all — and  the  most  unattainable.  He  was  too  old  to  seek 
less.  He  felt  that  he  had  only  a  few  years  to  live;  and  his  months  of  re- 
tirement had  not  refreshed  him,  as  he  had  hoped  they  would.  His  relent- 
less energies  never  really  let  him  rest,  and  he  was  feeling  the  physical  re- 
action from  years  of  high-tension  labor.  To  return  to  the  dismal  life  of 
the  'Messes'  seemed  more  than  he  could  bear.  As  he  wrote,  acceptance 
would  'break  up  all  my  family  arrangements,  and  I  have  no  hope  that  I 
can  possibly  induce  Mrs.  Calhoun  again  to  return  to  Washington.'16 

But  what  a  challenge  lay  before  him!  With  Texas  annexed,  the  ob- 
jectives of  a  lifetime  would  be  near  fulfillment;  the  tightening  of  bonds 
between  West  and  South,  the  restoration  of  that  old  equilibrium  between 


364  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

the  sections,  upon  which  the  Union  had  been  built,  and  without  which,  he 
was  convinced,  it  would  fall;  and,  most  of  all,  safety  for  the  South  within 
the  Union.  Oregon  would  soon  be  knocking  at  the  door;  and  he  had  long 
included  Oregon  in  his  reckonings.  England  was  the  common  enemy;  he 
would  not  sacrifice  a  foot  of  American  soil  to  England,  not  even  to  save 
it  from  Northern  domination. 

To  broaden  the  bounds  of  his  country,  North  and  South;  to  win  ter- 
ritories, greater,  richer,  broader  than  the  Louisiana  Purchase,  this  was 
destiny — the  destiny  of  a  virile  young  country,  warring  her  way  in  a  world 
of  jealous  older  Powers.  Oregon  and  Texas,  'the  peace  of  the  country  .  .  . 
the  salvation  of  the  South/  as  McDuffie  had  said,  what  man  could  resist 
this  challenge?  Not  John  Calhoun.  He  had  fought  and  would  fight,  since 
all  insisted  upon  that.  He  knew  what  his  answer  was  to  be.  And  who  is 
to  blame  him,  if  he  dared  hope  a  little  for  a  final  triumph  to  his  years  of 
labor;  for  while  life  existed,  hope  lived  too.  'I  have  been  compelled  most 
reluctantly  to  accept  the  State  Department/ 1T  he  wrote  James  Edward. 


Calhoun  was  blissfully  free  from  any  scruples  about  imperialism  in  Amer- 
ica's attitude  toward  Texas.  Under  his  federal  theories,  Texas  and  all 
other  annexed  territories  would  come  in  as  sovereign  and  self-governing 
states.  Their  freedom  was  only  strengthened  by  the  federal  bond.  Thus 
could  Calhoun  reconcile  imperialism  with  self-determination,  although 
with  Texas  the  theories  were  shaken  by  the  facts.  Majority  rule,  Calhoun 
considered  tyranny;  yet  so  long  as  the  Union  operated  upon  that  principle, 
the  South  must  keep  the  majority.  Texas  supplied  the  balance — but  only 
as  a  slave  territory,  and  in  utter  contradiction  to  Calhoun's  own  avowed 
belief  that  the  people  of  the  state  had  the  right  to  determine  whether  they 
would  be  slave  or  free.  And  he  went  'by  tortuous  ways  to  get  Texas/  not 
because  he  wanted  Texas  to  be  slave,  but  because  he  wanted  South  Caro- 
lina to  be  free.18 

Undoubtedly  Calhoun  believed  himself  to  be  speaking  the  truth  when 
he  later  said:  'I  would  have  been  among  the  very  last  individuals  in  the 
United  States  to  have  made  any  movement  ...  for  Texas  .  .  .  simply 
on  the  ground  that  it  was  to  be  an  enlargement  of  slavery.'  He  honestly 
believed  that  annexation  was  'essential  to  the  interest  and  prosperity  of 
the  North.'  What  effect  it  might  have  on  slavery,  he  could  not  say,  but 
he  supposed  it  would  cwear  slavery  southwards.' 19  In  this  he  shared  the 
view  of  both  Jefferson  and  Tyler.  Texas  would  be  a  'safety  valve'  for 
the  Union,  by  which  the  threat  of  black  numerical  superiority  could  be 
removed  from  the  old  South,  and  the  blacks  diffused  among  the  whites  to 
a  point  where  fear  would  be  removed. 


XXII  CALHOUN  AND   THE  LONE  STAR  365 

Much  of  what  was  to  be  called  diplomacy  was  nothing  but  politics,  and 
muddy  politics  at  that.  Calhoun  was  a  statesman,  and  as  a  statesman 
would  he  be  adequate  to  the  politics  of  all  this?  With  his  aversion  to 
playing  the  game  for  his  own  profit,  would  he  know  how  to  play  it  for  a 
cause  upon  which  he  believed  lay  the  destiny  of  the  whole  South  and  the 
whole  country? 

It  turned  out  that  he  would.  He  had  not  lived  in  the  Washington  at- 
mosphere for  thirty-odd  years  without  learning  the  tricks  of  his  trade. 
To  obtain  his  goal,  the  friends  of  Texas  annexation  must  be  united*  Pref- 
erably, they  must  unite  upon  a  Presidential  candidate  pledged  to  annexa- 
tion— and  such  a  candidate  was  not  to  be  found  among  the  aspirants  of 
the  moment.  Slaveholder  Henry  Clay,  who  was  having  trouble  enough 
with  his  own  Northern  Whig  constituency  without  throwing  in  Texas, 
cut  his  political  throat  when  he  spoke  for  annexation  in  the  South  and 
against  it  in  the  North.  This  was  satisfactory  to  all  concerned  until  the 
newspapers  of  both  sections  compared  notes — and  Mr.  Clay  was  defeated 
before  he  had  even  run!  Exultant  over  cthe  last  of  Clay,'  Calhoun  told  a 
friend:  'Mr.  Clay  has  been  a  great  disturbing  power.  ...  He  has  done 
much  to  distract  the  South,  and  to  keep  the  West  out  of  its  true  posi- 
tion.' *°  But  the  Kentuckian's  collapse  was  merely  a  lucky  accident.  And 
in  a  sudden  bold  stroke  Calhoun  sought  reinforcements  from  the  man 
who  probably  hated  him  more  than  any  other,  Andrew  Jackson. 

Jackson  was  dying  at  the  Hermitage.  The  gallant  old  warrior  was  a 
shattered  wreck  of  seventy-seven  now,  coughing  his  lungs  away,  with  a 
year  yet  to  wait  for  release  from  pain  and  the  peace  he  had  never  known 
in  life.  His  flimsy  hold  on  the  political  leaders  of  the  country  was  as 
broken  as  his  body,  but  he  was  Andrew  Jackson  still,  and  to  uncounted 
ordinary  Americans,  he  was  America  itself.  He  was  only  a  symbol,  but 
a  symbol  who  had  bled  in  the  Revolution  and  looked  on  the  face  of  Jeffer- 
son, the  symbol  of  New  Orleans  and  the  last  invasion  of  American  soil, 
when  redcoats  and  buckskin  had  fought  it  out  over  the  heaped  cotton 
bales.  He  was  the  symbol  of  the  dreaming  South  and  the  brawling  West 
and  their  united  hope  of  a  new  world  in  the  new  promised  land — Texas. 

Like  Calhoun,  Andrew  Jackson  had  never  taken  his  eyes  off  Texas.  Yet 
his  political  heirs  were  invoking  his  name  while  side-stepping  the  issue  in 
which  Jackson  himself  was  most  interested.  Calhoun  understood  the  situa- 
tion perfectly.  Whatever  his  personal  feelings,  hie  avoided  the  mistake  of 
underestimating  the  power  of  his  old  enemy.  If  Jackson  would  speak, 
would  commit  himself  openly,  the  pretensions  of  his  one-time  followers 
would  crack  wide  open,  and  the  highway  to  the  Lone  Star  state  be  swept 
clear. 

It  would  have  been  asking  too  much  of  Calhoun's  pride  to  expect  him 
humbly  to  seek  aid  from  Andrew  Jackson,  especially  when  such  aid  in- 
volved the  destruction  of  Van  Buren  at  the  very  hands  that  had  made 


366  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

him.  Mr.  Calhoun's  methods  were  more  devious — and  more  diplomatic.  It 
was  he,  who  two  years  before  had  seen  to  it  that  Jackson  was  sent  a  let- 
ter from  a  Baltimore  papfer,  asserting,  first,  that  the  annexation  of  Texas 
was  essential  to  the  preservation  of  the  American  Union;  secondly,  that 
England  would  seize  the  new  Republic  if  America  did  not.  This  dual  threat 
had  fanned  Old  Hickory's  embers  into  flame.  He  had  hunched  over  his 
paper.  'I  am  ...  writing  scarcely  able  to  wield  my  pen,  or  to  see  what 
I  write.  .  .  .  Had  I  time  and  strength  I  would  make  it  a  clear  case  that 
...  we  as  a  nation  under  the  obligations  of  the  Treaty  of  1803  are 
bound  to  protect  Texas  as  part  of  Louisiana  ceded  to  us  by  France.  .  .  . 
There  is  no  time  to  lose  ...  I  am  daily  growing  weaker  and  shorter  of 
breath.'21 

This  was  the  letter  that  eventually  found  its  way  into  the  hands  of 
Secretary  of  State  Calhoun.  Van  Buren  himself  was  next  on  the  program. 
Never  had  Calhoun  deceived  himself  that  his  renewed  'friendship'  with 
the  New  Yorker  was  more  than  a  political  necessity.  Van  Buren's  recent 
flirtations  with  the  abolitionists  had  openly  disgusted  him.  He  must  be 
destroyed.  Van  Buren  had  opposed  annexation  in  1837.  Now,  with  in- 
finite dexterity,  Calhoun  saw  that  the  question  was  put  to  him  again. 
Would  Van  Buren  repudiate  his  old  leader?  Or  would  he  recant?  What- 
ever his  answer,  he  would  be  ruined  in  one  section  of  the  country  or  the 
other. 

Mr.  Van  Buren  replied  in  characteristic  fashion.  He  would  be  glad  to 
see  Texas  in  the  Union  if  such  an  end  could  be  obtained  without  war.  And 
as  the  South  had  openly  declared  that  it  would  risk  war,  both  with  Eng- 
land and  Mexico,  for  the  sake  of  Texas,  Van  Buren's  answer  was  as  un- 
satisfactory as  Calhoun  had  hoped  that  it  would  be.  Back  at  the  Her- 
mitage, Jackson,  still  speaking  'affectionately'  of  Van  Buren,  gave  the 
verdict.  The  party  must  choose  another  man. 


Both  Clay's  and  Van  Buren's  statements  revealed  how  deeply  the  seeds  of 
anti-slavery  feeling  had  penetrated  Northern  soil.  Neither  did  much  to 
soothe  the  feelings  of  the  overwrought  South.  Indeed,  throughout  the  Texas 
negotiations  Calhoun's  task  was  twofold:  to  get  Texas  into  the  Union  and 
to  keep  the  South  in. 

Never  had  anti-slavery  sentiment  been  so  high.  Only  two  years  before, 
Calhoun  himself  with  'delicacy'  and  'firmness'  had  staved  off  one  abortive 
attempt  at  disunion.  He  would  be  the  next  President,  it  was  understood; 
the  South  could  wait  a  little  longer.  But  the  tariff  was  going  up;  cotton 
had  dropped  to  four  cents  a  pound;  and  Calhoun  was  out  of  the  race  by 


XXH  CALHOUN   AND  THE  LONE   STAR  367 

the  spring  of  1844,  giving  full  rein  to  the  extremists,  who  had  rested 
their  hopes  of  'justice'  upon  his  election. 

Texas  was  the  last  chance.  Southern  tension  was  at  the  breaking  point. 
Letters  poured  in  on  Calhoun,  roaring  threats  of  secession  and  disunion, 
awaiting  only  his  word.  South  Carolina  was  ablaze.  In  May,  1844,  at  a 
meeting  in  Ashley,  came  the  cry  to  annex  Texas  'if  the  Union  will  accept 
it,'  or  to  annex  the  Southern  states  to  Texas  in  a  Southern  confederacy. 
At  Beaufort,  a  mass  meeting  threatened  that  if  the  South  were  'not  per- 
mitted' to  bring  Texas  into  the  Union,  'we  solemnly  announce  to  the 
world — that  we  will  dissolve  this  Union.' 

'We  hold  it  to  be  better,'  was  the  word  of  a  large  assembly  in  Williams- 
burg,  'to  be  out  of  the  Union  with  Texas  than  in  it  without  her/  Ham- 
mond despaired  'of  the  Union  more  and  more  daily.  .  .  .  The  .  .  .  tariff 
...  the  sectional  hostility  to  Texas  ...  the  impertinence  of  the  abo- 
litionists show  that  North  and  South  cannot  exist  united.'  His  Negroes 
were  fully  'aware  of  the  opinions  of  the  Presidential  candidates  on  ... 
Slavery  and  ...  the  abolitionists.'  There  was  'a  growing  spirit  of  in- 
subordination .  .  .  they  have  fired  several  houses  recently.  This  is  fear- 
ful— horrible.  A  quick  and  potent  remedy  must  be  applied.  Disunion  if 
needs  be.9  22 

'Texas  or  Disunion'  was  the  Fourth  of  July  toast  echoing  across  the 
South  in  the  summer  of  1844,  'and  a  Southern  convention  generally  called 
for.'  Richmond  was  suggested,  but  the  hotheads  were  coolly  repelled  by 
the  Virginia  capital.  Next,  Nashville  was  sounded  out,  but  its  citizens 
deplored  'the  desecration  of  the  soil  of  Tennessee  ...  by  treason  against 
the  Union.'  The  scheme  collapsed,  but  not  until  the  North  had  been  suf- 
ficiently alarmed — which  may  have  been  the  real  intention  all  along.23 

'It  is  to  us  a  question  of  life  and  death,'  wrote  Calhoun.  Wracked  by 
the  agitation,  which  almost  single-handedly  he  was  trying  to  control,  he 
had  no  scruples  against  bringing  the  North  into  line  through  fear,  and 
urged  Hammond  and  other  hotheads  to  voice  their  sentiments  in  the  press. 
All  America  must  know  the  consequences  should  annexation  be  defeated. 

'I  only  ask  the  South  to  stand  by  me.'  From  the  North  he  expected 
nothing.  Bitterly  he  wrote  that  the  South,  with  its  own  interests  unchal- 
lenged, had  supported  the  North  in  the  Revolution  and  the  War  of  1812, 
but  now,  when  the  South  asked  aid,  the  North  refused.24 

8 

But  if  Calhoun  felt  bitterness  at  the  stand  of  New  England,  for  Old  Eng- 
land he  felt  only  contempt.  Britain's  idealism  he  saw  as  nothing  but  fa 
grand  scheme  of  commercial  monopoly,  disguised  under  the  garb  of 
abolitionism.'  He  knew  of  the  plight  of  the  women  and  children,  heaving 


368  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

coal  in  the  British  mines,  the  'freedom'  of  the  famine-ridden  peasants  of 
India  and  Ireland.  It  was  under  Britain's  'starvation  or  forced  labor'  plan 
that  so-called  'free'  Negroes  were  transported  from  Africa  to  the  West 
Indies,  there  to  'compete  successfully'  with  American  slave  labor.  Cal- 
houn  detected  in  all  this  an  English  attempt  'to  restore  .  .  .  the  slave 
trade  itself,  under  the  specious  name  of  transporting  laborers  .  .  .  to 
compete  .  .  .  with  those  who  have  refused  to  follow  her  suicidal  policy.' 25 
And  a  generation  ahead  of  history,  Calhoun  saw  right  through  the 
problem  that  was  to  torment  the  future  Confederacy.  Would  England 
ally  herself  with  the  South?  Calhoun  could  have  given  the  answer.  It  was 
to  England's  interest  that  the  South  remain  in  the  Union,  selling  her  cot- 
ton at  the  prices  of  the  world  exchange.  It  was  to  England's  interest  that 
slavery  cease  to  compete  with  the  labor  of  her  own  colonies.  And  it  was  to 
England's  interest  that  Texas  remain  free — a  clearing  house  from  which 
well-trained  agitators  could  be  filtered  through  the  Southern  states.  Eng- 
land had  actual  territorial  designs  on  Texas,  Calhoun  was  convinced,  as  a 
site  from  which  she  could  'brave  at  pleasure  the  American  continent  and 
control  its  destiny.'  * 


To  the  fastidious  eyes  of  Sir  Richard  Pakenham,  fresh  from  the  London 
of  Dickens,  Disraeli,  and  plump  little  Victoria,  the  crude  and  lusty  Amer- 
ican capital  must  have  seemed,  as  it  had  to  Ms  compatriot,  Harriet  Mar- 
tineau,  a  'grand  mistake.'  Certainly,  despite  the  pretensions  of  the  sprawl- 
ing white  Capitol  building,  topped  with  its  tawdry  wooden  washbowl  of 
a  dome,  Washington,  like  the  nation  it  symbolized,  was  still  all  'promises.' 
Half-hearted  attempts  had  been  made  at  paving  a  few  of  the  streets,  but 
most  of  the  avenues  were,  as  yet,  'theoretical,'  the  passage  of  which  in- 
volved an  ambitious  journey  over  stiles,  ditches,  and  open  fields,  until 
the  weary  pedestrian  finally  attained  the  few  stretches  of  gravel,  ash,  or 
brick  paving,  or  the  loose  planks  flopping  in  the  mud,  which  served  as 
sidewalks. 

Surface  drains  meandered  along  the  roadways.  Pigs,  geese,  and  cows, 
turned  loose  to  consume  the  huge  piles  of  garbage  heaped  up  in  the  streets, 
disputed  the  right  of  way  with  delicate  femininity  in  crinolines.  Pennsyl- 
vania Avenue  was  still  a  slatternly  jumble  of  shanties,  pigsties,  cowsheds, 
and  hencoops;  of  boarding  houses,  hotels,  markets,  grocery  and  drug 
stores,  and  a  taffy  store  where  the  owner  'spat  on  his  hands'  to  make  his 
candy  crisp — all  these  jostled  sedate  brick  buildings  with  fanlit  doorways 
and  bare,  half-finished  government  buildings. 

It  was  April  of  1844,  the  air  mild,  if  not  sweet-scented — April  after  the 
long  malarial  winter,  where  hot  and  cold  days  alternated  like  beads  upon  a 


CALHOUN  AND   THE  LONE   STAR  369 

string,  and  the  meadows  were  'gay  with  wild  flowers,'  while  the  rivers 
were  still  'sheets  of  ice.' 27  The  languor  of  a  Southern  spring  was  droop- 
ing over  the  city,  and  if  little  white  boys  were  energetically  chasing  stray 
chickens,  the  wiser  little  black  boys  drowsed  peacefully  upon  the  sunny 
curbings,  horses'  reins  slung  loosely  around  their  ankles. 

Her  Majesty's  envoy  on  his  way  to  the  State  Department  pushed  his 
way  among  spare,  grave-faced  New  Englanders;  clean-shaven  Southerners, 
immaculate  in  high  stocks  and  gaily  embroidered  waistcoats,  yet  already 
betraying  the  arrogance  that  was  to  ruin  them;  Westerners,  one  without 
a  cravat,  one  with  his  black  hair  braided  like  a  woman's,  still  another  in 
the  coonskin  cap  and  fringed  buckskins  of  the  frontier;  Indians,  blanketed 
and  gloomy;  and  a  somber  chaingang  of  slave  prisoners  being  moved 
slowly  forward  in  an  'enforced  march.'  And  at  last,  the  State  Depart- 
ment office  on  the  corner  of  Fifteenth  Street — and  Mr.  Calhoun. 

Seeing  him  there  behind  his  desk,  slender  and  noticeably  stooped,  bow- 
ing with  the  'grace  of  a  younger  man,'  and  a  'courtesy  that  might  have 
come  from  generations  of  old  aristocracy,'  the  British  Minister  may  well 
have  wondered  what  kind  of  man  he  was.  No  breezy  'democratic'  fellow- 
ship, no  hearty  joviality  here.  Although  'charmed'  with  Calhoun's  genial 
greeting,  he  would  have  felt  a  barrier  between  him  and  the  stately  Caro- 
linian, which,  although  'slight  as  gossamer,  was  as  impenetrable  as  gran- 
ite.' But  this  quality  of  reserve  would  not  have  been  displeasing  to  an 
Englishman.  After  days  in  a  city  raucous  with  the  twang  of  the  frontier 
and  the  nasal  whine  of  New  England,  the  thick-edged  Dutch  inflections 
of  New  York  and  Jersey,  and  the  slurred  syllables  of  Georgia  and  Florida, 
he  would  have  highly  appreciated  Calhoun's  'perfect'  enunciation  and  pro- 
nunciation, to  which  the  flavor  of  the  Scots-Irish  would  have  borne  a 
familiar  echo  to  Pakenham.28 

But  what  was  he?  An  'idea  .  .  ,  a  consecrated  purpose'  he  had  long 
seemed  to  the  world  at  large '  ...  in  Congress,  in  Cabinets,  on  this  or  the 
other  side  of  the  throne  of  American  power.'  Certainly  he  looked  the 
part.  He  was  'unlike  any  other  man,'  with  his  tight  lips  and  dark  eyes 
burning  into  Pakenham's  as  if  to  read  his  very  thoughts,  yet  revealing 
nothing  of  his  own;  his  furrowed  brow  and  thin  cheeks,  cut  deep  with 
lines  of  passion  and  thought — 'too  intense  for  compromise.'  What  could 
you  make  of  a  mind  with  all  the  keen-edged  vigor  of  youth  fused  to  a 
finely  poised  flexibility  on  every  subject  but  one,  and  on  that  one  as 
'fixed  and  unchangeable  as  a  law  of  nature'?  29  To  any  thoughtful  observer 
at  this  period,  Calhoun  was  a  fascinating  study,  but  for  Pakenham  he 
was  a  living  challenge  to  the  powers  of  diplomacy. 

Slowly,  carefully,  with  infinite  delicacy,  the  two  men  felt  each  other  out, 
parried,  thrust,  withdrew.  It  was  America's  wish,  said  Calhoun,  to  accom- 
plish annexation  in  a  manner  'agreeable'  to  the  interests  of  both  Eng- 
land and  Mexico.  Sir  Richard  declined  to  view  any  aspect  of  the  sittia- 


370  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

tion  as  agreeable.  Calhoun,  calm  and  undisturbed,  closed  the  interview, 
firmly  declining  correspondence. 

Next  came  the  Minister  from  Mexico.  Mexico,  Calhoun  assured  her 
anxious  representative,  would  be  well  compensated  if  she  renounced  her 
claims.  Five  million  dollars  was  the  sum  at  which  he  hinted.  But  in  this 
^present'  Mexico  manifested  no  interest. 

In  a  second  conversation  with  Pakenham,  Calhoun  frankly  admitted 
the  anxieties  of  the  slaveholding  states,  outlined  details  of  his  offer  to 
Mexico.  Why  could  not  England,  France,  and  the  United  States  join  in 
an  alliance  against  all  encroachments  on  the  Mexican  territory?  Paken- 
ham  countered  with  a  suggestion  that  all  three  bind  themselves  not  to 
encroach  upon  the  independence  of  Texas.  Calhoun  smilingly  declined. 
This  did  not  suit  his  'present  purpose.' 80 

But  it  was  with  the  Minister  from  Texas  himself  that  Calhoun's  con- 
versation was  most  disturbing.  The  Texas  people  wanted  annexation,  but 
not  flamboyant  Sam  Houston,  President  of  that  Republic.  Houston  could 
afford  to  wait  Houston,  nursing  his  grudges  against  Calhoun,  fully  con- 
scious of  his  country's  desirability  in  a  colony-hungry  world,  could  play 
England,  France,  and  the  United  States  off  against  each  other  for  the 
best  terms  and  for  the  best  protection  and  recognition  of  himself. 

And  if  the  United  States  were  to  press  annexation,  'friendship'  and  aid 
from  the  European  Powers  would  cease.  Mexico  had  never  recognized  the 
independence  of  Texas;  she  would  regard  annexation  as  an  unfriendly 
act,  and  might  take  measures.  Was  the  United  States  prepared  to  give 
satisfactory  assurance  of  her  intent  to  defend  the  soil  of  her  prospective 
territory? 

This  was  the  question  that  Mr.  Upshur  had  found  unanswerable.  Death 
had  freed  him  from  the  responsibility.  Calhoun,  who  was  willing  Ho 
sacrifice  everything  but  his  honor  to  obtain  Texas,' a  would  risk  even  war 
to  obtain  his  end,  but  he  had  no  power  to  commit  the  United  States. 
Nor  did  he  want  Texas  to  enter  the  Union  as  a  conquered  territory,  but 
as  an  independent  state.  However,  a  United  States  naval  squadron  could 
be  placed  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  Extra  troops  could  be  sent  to  the  South- 
west frontier.  The  President/  Calhoun  assured  the  Texan  Minister, 
'would  deem  it  his  duty  to  use  all  the  means  placed  in  his  power  by  the 
Constitution  to  protect  Texas  from  foreign  invasion.'  The  inclusion  of 
three  words  saved  him,  for  without  the  support  of  Congress,  the  Presi- 
dent had  no  power  to  declare  war.  But  Calhoun's  assurances  were  enough 
for  the  Minister,  who  at  the  'Texas  dinner5  on  May  18,  offered  a  toast 
to  the  Secretary  of  State:  'When  he  thinks  he  is  right,  he  will  go  ahead  no 
matter  how  great  the  responsibility;  and  had  he  the  power,  the  army 
would  doubtless  be  ordered  right  into  Texas  to  repel  any  attack  on  her.' 83 


XXH  CALHOUN  AND  THE   LONE   STAR  371 


10 

Calhoun's  activities  during  the  previous  few  weeks  had  been  intense.  On 
April  22,  1844,  he  laid  before  the  Senate  his  Treaty  of  Annexation,  com- 
plete with  copies  of  correspondence  between  Lord  Aberdeen  and  Paken- 
ham,  which  promised  that  England  would  use  no  'improper7  influence  to 
prevent  annexation.  Included  was  his  own  note  to  Pakenham,  the  audacity 
of  which  was  scarcely  paralleled  in  American  diplomatic  history.  'I  took 
the  broad  ground/  he  wrote  a  friend,  'that  our  policy  was  to  interfere 
with  no  other  country,  and  to  allow  no  other  country  to  interfere'  with 
our  internal  concerns.  Actually  his  ground  was  far  broader.  With  dis- 
concerting frankness  he  had  thrust  the  entire  responsibility  for  annexa- 
tion upon  England  herself.  Even  indirect  influence  upon  Texas,  he  con- 
tended, was  'improper.'  England's  own  actions  were  forcing  annexation 
upon  America  'in  imperious  self-defense.'  'The  time  is  come/  he  declared, 
'when  England  must  be  met  on  the  abolition  question.' S3 

Sir  Richard  Pakenham's  response  was  bitter.  It  was  a  misrepresenta- 
tion to  say  that  the  Texas  Treaty  was  the  result  of  British  views.  British 
views  had  been  known  all  along.  Furthermore,  had  not  Calhoun  himself 
been  an  open  annexationist  as  early  as  1836? 

The  charge  was  true,  but  Calhoun  had  the  law  upon  his  side.  Neither 
England  nor  the  United  States  was  responsible  for  Calhoun's  private 
views  as  a  Senator.  He  was  not  the  Senator  from  South  Carolina  now,  but 
the  representative  of  the  United  States,  accountable  for  no  beliefs  and  no 
action  but  those  of  the  government.  Furthermore,  whatever  Britain's 
views  had  been  in  past  years,  it  was  only  now  that  they  were  officially 
avowed. 

Calhoun  had  saved  himself  by  his  ingenious  inclusion  among  the  papers 
laid  before  the  Senate  of  a  Presidential  statement  that  present  conditions 
merely  confirmed  Mr.  Tyler's  'previous  impressions.'  Naturally,  none 
knew  better  than  Calhoun  and  Pakenham  that  negotiations  for  Texas  had 
been  under  way  for  months,  wholly  on  the  basis  of  unofficial  'information.* 
Even  now  the  secret  words  of  Duff  Green  bore  more  weight  than  the  open 
avowals  of  Lord  Aberdeen,  which  served  as  the  mere  excuse  to  complete 
work  already  begun. 

11 

But  what  a  storm  was  stirred  up!  Reverberations  thundered  from  Downing 
Street.  Great  Britain  had  'no  thought  or  intention  of  seeking  to  act  di- 
rectly or  indirectly  ...  on  the  United  States  through  Texas.' 

Calhoun's  bald  assertion  that  slavery  was  the  issue  may  have  united 


372  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

the  South,  but  it  had  as  thoroughly  united  the  North,  by  admitting  what 
had  been  suspected  from  the  first.  Calhoun's  feelings  had  run  away  with 
him,  and  the  brilliant  logician,  who  had  so  meticulously  shown  that  slav- 
ery was  a  question  pertaining  only  to  the  states,  now  stood  before  the 
nations  of  the  world,  openly  committing  the  American  government  to  the 
defense  of  the  South's  'domestick  institution/  and  openly  declaring  that 
an  attack  on  slavery  anywhere  was  an  attack  on  slavery  everywhere.34  He 
had  wrecked  his  own  best  argument. 

Fury  swept  the  North.  Massachusetts,  'faithful  to  the  compact  be- 
tween the  people  of  the  United  States/  declared  Charles  Francis  Adams, 
saw  that  'the  annexation  of  Texas,  unless  resisted,  may  drive  these  states 
into  a  dissolution  of  the  Union/  Whittier  frothed  with  poetic  fury  at 
'slave-accursed  Texas.'  Calhoun's  best  friends  feared  the  result  of  his 
boldness.  Admirers  could  contend  that  his  'open  avowal  ...  of  the  real 
motives  .  .  .  was  .  .  .  what  the  American  public  expected  from  the 
known  candor  and  high  and  honorable  bearing  ...  so  ...  admired  in 
John  C.  Calhoun.' 85  Yet  even  they  saw  that  the  issue  might  'endanger  the 
Union/  and  watched  the  votes  for  annexation  melt  into  the  mist.  Preston 
railed  that  his  one-time  colleague  considered  questions  only  in  relation 
to  the  'elections  of  1848';  and  'little  Aleck'  Stephens  saw  the  whole  Texas 
scheme  as  'got  up  to  divide  and  distract  the  Whig  Party  at  the  South/ 
or  to  accomplish  the  'dissolution  of  the  present  Confederacy.'  Would 
Mr.  Calhoun  destroy  a  country  of  which  he  could  not  be  chief  magistrate? 

Not  even  the  South  would  stand  by  Calhoun.  Who  would  risk  war  with 
an  election  in  the  offing?  When  the  final  vote  was  counted,  only  sixteen 
Senators  had  dared  approve  annexation,  despite  roars  from  old  Andrew 
Jackson  that  'There  was  never  such  treason  to  the  South.'  Stephens  won- 
dered how  Calhoun  could  dream  the  Senate  was  so  'lost  to  all  sense  of  na- 
tional honor  ...  as  to  ratify  this  treaty.' 86  Yet  so  overwhelming  was  the 
shock  of  defeat  that  in  a  momentary  fit  of  despondency,  Calhoun  actually 
advised  Tyler  to  abandon  the  whole  question,  and  for  weeks  the  project 
lay  dormant.87 

12 

Texas  alone  was  enough  to  tax  any  one  man's  powers  of  diplomacy.  But 
all  through  the  negotiations,  Calhoun  had  a  second  personal  war  on  his 
hands,  with  his  son  Andrew  on  the  one  side  and  Anna  Maria's  husband, 
Thomas  Clemson,  on  the  other.  Andrew,  an  Alabama  cotton  planter,  had 
unfortunately  inherited  all  of  his  father's  indifference  to  money,  with  little 
of  his  scrupulousness  in  the  use  of  it.  Certainly  he  was  no  fit  business 
partner  for  the  dour  Thomas  Clemson,  a  stickler  for  accuracy,  strict 
ethics,  and  square  bargains.  From  his  embassy  post  in  Belgium,  Clemson 
constantly  harassed  his  father-in-law  with  a  lengthy  list  of  accusations 
against  Andrew,  and  Calhoun,  refusing  to  take  sides,  attempted  solution 


XXII  CALHOUN   AND  THE  LONE    STAR  373 

by  personally  shouldering  the  blame.  Apparently  he  never  mentioned  mat- 
ters to  Andrew  with  whom  he  was  on  the  most  affectionate  terms  and 
whom  he  frequently  defended  against  Floride's  criticisms.  To  Clemson  he 
promised  payment  of  'every  cent  due  you/  Loftily  his  moralistic  son-in- 
law  declined  the  offer.  'You  take  upon  yourself/  he  wrote  Calhoun,  'what 
I  think  ought  to  rest  elsewhere.' 38 

In  common  with  Calhoun's  entire  family,  Clemson  seemed  to  think  that 
the  Secretary  of  State  had  plenty  of  time  to  manage  his  family's  personal 
affairs.  Calhoun  was  of  the  same  opinion.  He  always  felt  that  the  strong 
should  bear  the  burdens  of  the  weak;  but  he  was  often  very  weary,  and 
hinted  as  much  to  Clemson,  who  merely  responded:  'I  have  no  doubt 
your  occupations  are  very  laborious.  I  wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  allevi- 
ate them.' 89 

The  presumptuous  Pennsylvania!!  had  no  hesitation  in  asking  his  father- 
in-law  to  ride  over  his  entire  plantation,  discharge  the  overseer,  see  to  the 
Negroes,  and  arrange  for  everything  that  ought  to  be  done.  His  father-in- 
law  would  do  so.  A  letter  from  Floride:  'Anxiety  has  been  too  much  for  me.' 
Did  he  remember  that  green  silk  shawl,  striped  with  leaves,  which  he 
had  brought  her  from  Washington  years  before?  She  was  afraid  that  it 
had  been  lost  at  the  dyer's.  Would  he  see  to  it?  He  would. 

A  note  from  James  at  the  University  of  Virginia.  He  needed  some  books. 
Would  his  father  find  them?  His  father  would. 

There  was  Calhoun's  brother-in-law,  James  Colhoun,  whose  young  bride 
had  just  died.  He  must  write  James.  cMy  deep  condolence  to  you.  ...  I 
will  not  attempt  .  .  .  consolation.  Your  bereavement  is  too  great  for  that. 
When  the  wound  is  so  deep,  nothing  but  a  change  of  scene  or  the  gentle 
hand  of  time  can  assuage  the  pain.  You  must  not  think  of  remaining  alone. 
.  .  .  The  scenes  around  you  will  but  .  .  .  remind  you  of  your  loss  and 
convert  your  grief  into  bitter  gloom.  We  urge  you  to  make  our  home  your 
home,  at  least  for  some  months  to  come.  .  .  „  Your  affliction  has  been 
great,  but  you  are  too  young  ...  to  retire  from  the  drama  of  life.  While 
health  and  strength  remain  we  have  duties  to  perform.' 40 

Like  many  busy  men,  Calhoun  found  time  and  energy  to  do  an  enor- 
mous number  of  things.  How  he  managed  it  was  a  marvel  even  to  those 
who  knew  him  best,  but  Miss  Bates,  the  governess,  noted  that  he  wasted 
no  time,  and  that  'by  gathering  up  the  fragments  he  had  enough  and  to 
spare.'  Small  wonder,  however,  that  he  was  obliged  to  live  by  the  dock, 
to  rise  before  dawn  to  attend  to  his  voluminous  correspondence.41  And 
small  wonder  that  we  find  him  writing  home:  'I  feel  myself  a  Trustee  for 
you  all.' 

But  he  was  never  too  tired  to  reach  eagerly  for  the  bulky  letters  with 
the  Belgian  postmark,  addressed  in  Anna  Maria's  angular,  illegible  script, 
so  like  his  own;  or  the  tiny,  precise  lettering  of  his  'affectionate  son,' 
Thomas  Clemson,  Clemson  was  to  be  presented  at  Court  and  had  been 


374  JOHN  C.  CALHOUN 

trying  on  his  'stiff,'  ornate  uniform.  'Anna  laughs  at  me  a  good  deal  about 
it,'  Clemson  wrote,  'and  wishes  that  you  were  here  to  see  me.  She  says  you 
would  die  laughing.5 

Gay,  teasing  notes  from  Anna  Maria,  sometimes  scrawled  across  the 
back  of  her  husband's  letters — these  were  the  best  of  all.  'Seeing  so  much 
blank  paper  going  begging,'  she  would  explain,  'I  may  as  well  fill  it,  even 
with  nonsense.'  She  would  dash  off  bits  of  chatter  about  her  gowns,  her 
impressions  of  Paris,  and  assurances  that  the  children  were  as  'smart  as 
ever,  in  spite  of  all  you  say  to  the  contrary.'  Christmas  was  coming!  What 
would  he  like  for  a  present?  'It  is  not  the  value  of  things  I  know  which 
you  will  think  of .  .  .  .  For  Mother  and  Sister  there  were  a  thousand  things 
one  might  send,  but  you  are  a  man  so  utterly  without  fancies  that  it  is 
hard  to  know  what  would  suit  you.'  She  had  decided  upon  a  black  silk 
cravat,  which  was  'ridiculous  to  have  sent  you.' 42 

Letters  of  this  kind — Anna  Maria's  assurances  that  'I  love  you  all 
dearly  and  am  crazy  to  see  you';  Clemson's  news  that  'The  little  fellow 
[Calhoun  Clemson]  often  talks  of  you' — were  rare  refreshment  in  Cal- 
houn's  overladen  days.  From  home  the  news  was  less  cheerful.  Floride's 
nervous  'agitated'  letters  informed  him  of  every  article  of  clothing  down 
to  the  last  pair  of  pantaloons  which  she  had  packed  in  the  boys'  trunks, 
and  every  symptom  of  their  ailments,  which  were  frequent  and  severe.  The 
younger  boys,  especially  John  and  William,  were  frail,  all  troubled  with 
ominous  chest  weakness  and  'constant  cough.'  Like  their  father,  they  were 
brilliant  mentally,  although,  to  his  regret,  none  shared  his  taste  for  the 
'classicks.'  John  was  studying  medicine  at  the  University  of  Virginia,  his 
letters  so  charming,  so  filled  with  enthusiastic  descriptions  of  the  Uni- 
versity's beauties  that  Calhoun  proudly  passed  them  on  to  his  brother-in- 
law.  John's  ill  health,  however,  was  a  continual  worry  to  his  father,  and 
when  entering  him  in  the  University,  he  had  written  at  length  to  the  law 
professor,  Henry  St.  George  Tucker,  urging  that  his  son  'have  the  bene- 
fit of  the  best  medical  advice  that  can  be  obtained.'  He  was  'exceedingly 
uneasy'  about  him.43 

Calhoun  was  just  congratulating  himself  that  he  had  gotten  his  two 
youngest  boys  confined  in  a  small  backwoods  college,  where  'there  will 
be  nothing  to  divert  their  attention  from  study  and  their  morals  will  be 
safe,'  when  he  received  distressing  news.  Enforced  morality  and  the  charms 
of  learning  had  been  too  much  for  James,  who  had  deserted  within  two 
weeks.  Calhoun  was  deeply  disappointed.  He  had  planned  soon  to  send 
the  boys  to  a  larger  college,  but  at  the  moment  they  were  utterly  unfit  for 
anything  better.  In  fact,  their  dislike  of  Greek  and  Latin  was  so  intense 
that  their  father  took  time  out  from  the  Texas  negotiations  to  write  the 
college  president  that  to  make  his  sons  study  the  hated  languages  would 
be  a  useless  waste  of  time. 

Of  the  restless,  headstrong  James,  Calhoun  had  great  hopes,  but  he  knew 


XXH  CALHOUN  AND  THE  LONE  STAR  375 

his  weaknesses.  He  was  reckless  and  extravagant,  easily  'led  astray  by  bad 
company.'  It  had  been  to  prevent  him  from  overindulging  himself  that 
his  father  had  put  him  'in  the  woods.'  'He  has  good  talents  and  great 
ambition/  Calhoun  wrote  his  ever-sympathetic  brother-in-law,  'and  all 
that  is  wanted  is  to  give  them  the  right  direction  to  make  him  distinguished 
in  life.'  With  evident  foreboding  the  indulgent  father  gave  way  to  the 
boy's  pleadings  and  entered  him  in  the  University  of  Virginia,  where  sur- 
prisingly he  became  'much  attached  to  his  studies.'  By  December,  1846, 
Calhoun  was  again  writing,  'I  begin  to  have  much  hope  of  him.'  **  But  this 
most  promising  of  all  his  boys,  although  he  outlived  his  father,  died  young. 


13 

Despite  his  years,  Calhoun  seems  to  have  borne  the  duties  of  the  State 
Department  with  less  physical  strain  than  he  had  undergone  during  his 
time  as  War  Secretary.  His  tasks  were  no  less  arduous.  As  Secretary  of 
State  he  was  virtually  'the  master-spirit  of  the  American  Government'; 
and  was  amazed  himself  at  'the  immense  influence'  his  Department  exerted 
'on  foreign  and  domestick  affairs.'45  The  National  Ardiives  give  vivid 
illustration  of  the  tasks  that  confronted  him.  There  was  the  diplomatic 
correspondence,  official  and  unofficial,  the  parrying  and  sparring  in  the 
interviews;  explanations  to  the  Senate  that  'no  salary  attaches  to  the 
appointment'  of  Mr.  Duff  Green  as  consul  at  Galveston.  Discovering  that 
the  port  collectors  could  not  complete  their  returns  in  time  for  the  con- 
vening of  Congress  on  January  first  of  each  year,  he  set  back  their  date 
to  early  in  September.  He  even  chose  and  ordered  the  books  for  the  De- 
partment library:  histories  of  England  and  of  Greece,  the  Transactions  of 
the  Royal  Geographic  Society,  History  of  India,  Rardinel's  History  of  the 
Slave  Trade,  the  history  of  the  Oregon  territory,  and  The  Travels  of  Marco 
Polo* 

The  duties  of  the  Department,  he  thought,  had  been  'shamefully  ne- 
glected.547 He  tackled  them  with  driving  energy.  In  his  scant  .eleven 
months  of  service  he  endowed  the  Department  with  the  same  clean-cut 
efficiency  that  had  characterized  the  War  Office  when  he  had  closed  the 
door  upon  it  But  he  had  no  surplus  strength  to  fritter  on  detail — through 
sheer  physical  necessity  he  had  at  last  learned  to  delegate  authority. 

Clerks  found  him  'courteous,  affable,  and  considerate.'  He  was  less 
irritable  than  in  his  younger  days,  less  tense;  and  although  tolerating  not 
'the  slightest  carelessness,'  toward  unintentional  mistakes  he  was  unex- 
pectedly 'kind  and  lenient.'  ** 

He  took  his  responsibilities,  however,  with  overwhelming  seriousness.  He 
was  annoyed  by  Tyler's  happy-go-lucky  manner,  and  made  it  perfectly 
plain  to  the  President  that  he  would  conduct  his  own  Department  in  his 


376  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

own  way*  It  was  no  secret  to  the  departmental  underlings  that  the  Presi- 
dent and  his  high-handed  Cabinet  officer  reached  a  near-rupture  over  the 
appointment  of  an  aide  to  Ambassador  William  R.  King,  for  Calhoun 
insisted  that  the  assistant,  regardless  of  his  political  qualifications,  must 
be  able  to  speak  French. 


14 

Although  Calhoun's  'bold,'  unhesitating  course  gave  him  'power  as  a 
statesman  before  the  civilized  world/  he  was  no  ideal  Secretary  of  State 
as  Webster  had  been.  He  had  neither  the  means  nor  the  energy  to  play  host 
at  those  mighty  ten-course  dinners  which  his  predecessor  had  so  enjoyed. 
He  was,  in  fact,  excused  from  arduous  social  duties.  So  strongly  were  his 
energies  concentrated  on  his  main  purpose  that  he  had  even  considered 
serving  without  pay  if  he  could  have  been  freed  from  routine  departmental 
duties  and  given  carte  blanche  on  the  settlement  of  the  Texas  and  Oregon 
questions.49 

But  he  was  not  a  recluse.  For  the  last  time  he  went  out  into  that  Wash- 
ington society  where,  dining  on  terrapin  and  canvasback  ducks,  guests 
argued  the  merits  of  Dante  and  Virgil,  or  Byron  and  Wordsworth,  where 
George  Sand  was  mentioned  with  'bated  breath/  and  Lady  Audley's 
Secret  was  always  a  secret  to  the  young.50 

At  Presidential  receptions  it  was  noted  that  the  Secretary  of  State  was 
kept  busy  shaking  hands  with  as  many  people  as  Tyler  himself.  And  the 
President's  'informal  receptions'  in  that  most  formal  East  Room,  with 
its  row  of  crystal  chandeliers  and  its  enameled  paneling,  were  as  popular 
as  Tyler's  policies  were  distasteful.  At  the  President's  invitation,  fashion- 
able and  unfashionable  Washington  alike  attended  the  Saturday  afternoon 
Marine  Band  concerts  on  the  White  House  lawn.  There  you  saw  the 
portly  Benton,  strolling  up  and  down,  looking  as  if  keeping  up  'a  gentle 
remonstrance  with  himself  for  being  so  much  greater  than  the  rest  of  the 
world';  gaunt  and  crippled  George  McDuffie  of  South  Carolina,  'formed  in 
the  same  physical  mold  as  Mr.  Calhoun,  but  bearing  aloft  a  cavalier's 
head';  Vice-President  Dallas,  in  his  black  suit  and  immaculate  white 
cravat,  his  dark  eyes  shining  beneath  heavy  black  brows,  and  a  mass  of 
curly  white  hair;  and  Secretary  of  State  Calhoun,  'tall  and  gray  and  thin/ 
bowing  to  his  friends,  his  hand  upon  his  heart.51 

Fully  appreciative  of  the  festivities  was  the  President's  bride,  Julia 
Gardiner,  writing  ecstatic  notes  to  her  mother  of  her  excitement  when  the 
great  men  of  the  day  were  presented  to  her.  'Her  wit,  her  piquancy  .  .  . 
bewitching  grave  and  gay,  old  and  young  ...  she  was  one  of  those  born 
to  shine,  to  carry  hearts  by  storm.' 62  But  this  was  said  of  her  later.  Now 
she  was  a  frightened  girl,  subjected  to  the  whispered  taunts  of  those  who 


XXII  CALHOUN  AND  THE  LONE  STAR  377 

believed  she  had  married  the  President  only  because  he  was  the  President. 
And  it  was  Secretary  of  State  Calhoun  who  played  no  small  part  in  smooth- 
ing her  way. 

He  came  to  her  rescue  at  her  own  wedding  reception,  when  Tyler,  sud- 
denly engrossed  in  his  responsibilities  as  President,  left  Julia  alone  and 
uncertain  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  It  was  Calhoun  who  stepped  to  her 
side,  gently  took  her  arm,  and  led  her  to  the  table  where  he  helped  her 
cut  and  serve  her  wedding  cake.  From  that  time  on,  the  austere  Southerner 
and  the  'captain's  bride'  were  'excellent  friends.7 

At  a  crowded  dinner  table,  Julia  gaily  promised  that  she  would  make  it 
a  point  of  honor  to  see  that  her  friend,  Judge  John  McLean,  voted  for  the 
Texas  annexation.  'There  is  no  honor  in  politics,7  snapped  Calhoun.  Tyler, 
whose  'sense  of  political  honor  was  rigid,'  was  startled  when  she  repeated 
the  conversation  in  their  bedroom,  and  asked  her,  'almost  sternly,  "Did 
Calhoun  say  that?" '  But  Julia  found  nothing  in  her  later  knowledge  of 
men  or  events  to  change  her  respect  for  the  Secretary's  opinion. 

Never  had  Calhoun's  closest  friends  seen  him  'so  sociable'  as  he  was 
these  days.  At  a  'merry'  Cabinet  dinner,  Calhoun  at  Julia's  side  made 
himself  'particularly  engaging.'  For  to  her  utter  amazement,  he  whispered 
poetry  into  her  ear  'with  infinite  sweetness  and  taste.'  Tyler  'could  scarcely 
have  been  more  astonished  if  an  explosion  had  occurred  beneath  his  feet/ 
'Well,'  said  he,  'upon  my  word,  I  must  look  out  for  a  new  Secretary  of 
State,  if  Calhoun  is  to  stop  writing  despatches  and  go  to  repeating 
verses.7  M 


IS 

At  the  Texas  Treaty's  rejection  in  the  spring  of  1844,  the  lagging  hopes  of 
England  and  France  leaped  into  new  flame.  Both  nations  fairly  stumbled 
over  each  other  in  their  pledges  to  'guarantee7  Texas  independence.  In 
London,  Lord  Aberdeen  promised  the  Mexican  Minister  that  if  Mexico 
would  recognize  Texas,  France  and  England  would  jointly  guarantee  the 
independence  of  Mexico. 

The  'proceedings  of  other  Powers  in  Texas'  was  no  surprise  to  Calhoun. 
Nor  were  the  machinations  of  bitter  Sam  Houston  any  secret  to  Tyler,  who 
remarked  that  Houston's  'billing  and  cooing  with  England  was  as  serious 
a  love  affair  as  any  in  the  calendar.' 

From  Bremen,  United  States  Consul  Ambrose  Dudley  Mann  revealed  a 
British  plot  to  cut  off  Texas  from  all  European  trade  except  with  herself. 
'Would  to  Heaven,'  explained  Mann,  'that  my  country-men  could  .  .  . 
see  what  I  have  seen  ...  of  British  diplomacy.  With  one  voice  they 
would  exclaim:  "Give  us  Texas,  if  possible  without  a  War,  but  give  us 
Texas." '  From  Paris  the  American  Minister,  William  R.  King,  confirmed 


378  JOHN  C.   CALHOTO 

Calhoun's  belief  that  'under  the  pretext  of  humanity  towards  the  Slave/ 
Britain's  'real  object'  was  'to  engross  to  herself  the  entire  production  of 
Shugar  and  in  a  great  degree,  that  of  cotton  and  Rice.' **  Furthermore,  the 
Empire  was  'exerting  herself  to  induce  France  to  make  common  cause 
with  her.' 

'Unofficial' — 'Private,'  many  of  these  letters  were  marked,  but  their  in- 
formation was  none  the  less  real.  Unofficial,  too,  had  been  Captain  Mar- 
ryat's  little  book,  in  which  he  had  quoted  Dr.  Channing  Gould's  opinion 
that  'it  should  be  a  sina  qua  non  with  England7  that  Texas  should  adhere 
to  the  law  of  abolition  which  was  in  force  'at  the  time  that  she  was  an 
integral  part  of  Mexico.  ...  If  Texas  is  admitted  into  the  Union,  all 
thought  of  ...  abolition  .  .  .  must  be  thrown  forward  to  ...  an  in- 
definite period.  ...  If  Texas  remains  independent  .  .  .  slavery  abolished, 
she  becomes  .  .  .  not  only  the  greatest  check  to  slavery,  but  eventually 
"the  means  of  its  abolition.' 65 

Which  summarized  Calhoun's  opinion  precisely. 


16 

Word  from  Andrew  Jackson  Donelson,  new  American  Charg6  d'Affaires  in 
Texas,  helped  to  spur  the  Secretary  of  State's  lagging  hopes  into  action. 
Donelson  could  give  Calhoun  at  least  momentary  assurance  that  Houston's 
doubts  and  dodges  were  being  resolved  by  immediate  pressure  from  Donel- 
son and  more  remote  but  equally  effective  pressure  from  his  old  friend  at 
the  Hermitage.  Carefully  circulated  through  the  Texas  Congress  was 
assurance  that  'the  General  is  still  sanguine  of  the  success  of  ...  re- 
annexation,  and  awaits  .  .  .  fulfillment  of  the  popular  wish  in  the  United 
States.'  The  general  feeling  in  the  Texas  Congress  was  of  'the  best,' 
Donelson  reported.  But  he  sounded  a  warning:  the  British  and  French 
Ministers  at  Galveston,  'very  active  in  their  exertions  against  annexation 
.  .  .  report  that  no  measure  consummating  annexation  can  get  more  than 
Twenty  votes  in  our  Senate.  ...  I  hope  they  will  be  disappointed.'66 
Calhoun's  own  dismay  at  the  treaty's  rejection  had  been  primarily 
due  to  shock.  He  had  been  amazed  at  the  rebuff  from  a  Senate,  which  in 
answer  to  the  'unanimous  voice'  of  the  country  (as  he  believed)  had 
called  him  to  the  State  office  for  the  express  and  sole  purpose  of  bringing 
Texas  into  the  Union.  He  had  been  wrecked  by  his  own  zeal.  It  was  be- 
cause he  had  not  answered  the  unanimous  voice  of  the  country,  not  placed 
the  question  on  the  broad  national  grounds  it  deserved,  that  he  had  failed 
in  his  objective.  No  Northern  Congressman  who  cared  two  cents  for  his 
re-election  would  vote  for  a  measure  openly  committing  the  entire  United 
States  to  the  endorsement  of  slavery.  Calhoun  had  not  even  invoked  the 
diplomatic  subterfuges  of  language  by  which  he  could  have  made  the 


XXII  CALHOUN   AND  THE  LONE  STAR  379 

dose  tolerable.  He  had  acted  avowedly  as  a  slave  promoter,  and  by  doing 
so  had  played  the  part,  not  of  a  statesman,  but  of  a  Southern  partisan. 

But  by  autumn  of  1844,  although  positive  as  ever  that  Texas  was  still 
a  slavery  question,  he  had  known  what  he  must  do.  His  means  must  be 
wholly  American.  His  error  had  cost  time,  yet  events  were  moving  on  his 
side.  In  May,  dark  horse  James  Knox  Polk,  Andrew  Jackson's  'Young 
Hickory/  had  galloped  off  with  the  Democratic  nomination  on  an  avowed 
Texas  and  Oregon  expansionist  program.  His  election  by  a  hairline  margin 
that  November  was  interpreted  by  Tyler  as  the  demand  of  'a  controlling 
majority'  of  Americans  'in  terms*  the  most  emphatic/ 57  that  annexation  be 
accomplished. 

Jackson,  Tyler,  and  Calhoun  had  all  gauged  the  public  will  more  ac- 
curately than  a  pre-election  Congress.  Whether  slave  or  free,  Texas  tanta- 
lized the  American  imagination.  In  the  heat  and  froth  of  a  Presidential  cam- 
paign even  Northern  Democrats  could  give  tacit  support  to  annexation. 
Northern  business  leaders  saw  now  the  truth  of  Calhoun's  claim  that  the 
addition  of  Texas  to  the  Union  would  be  as  profitable,  economically,  to  the 
North  as  to  the  South.58 

On  September  10,  1844,  federal  forces  were  ordered  to  enter  Texas  for 
'protection'  against  possible  Mexican  invasion.  It  was  a  bold  game  he  was 
playing,  pitting  the  dying  Jackson  against  the  plotting  Houston,  the 
Southern  slavocracy  against  the  British  Empire,  uniting  the  divergent 
groups  and  the  divergent  aims,  the  cupidity  of  the  American  traders,  the 
greed  of  the  Western  expansionists,  the  party  ambitions  of  the  Northerners, 
the  life-and-death  hopes  of  the  Southerners,  all  into  a  single  weapon  for 
his  purposes. 

But  of  one  fact  Calhoun  was  sure.  Mexico  would  not  fight.  She  was 
penniless,  for  one  thing;  for  months  the  American  State  Department  had 
been  dunning  her  for  debts  due  under  the  Treaty  of  1843,  taunting  her 
for  her  want  of  honor.  By  December  she  would  be  all  but  'prostrated'  in 
'the  midst  of  a  revolution/ 69  as  Shannon  informed  Calhoun. 

Mexico  would  not  fight  without  the  aid  of  Britain,  and  Britain  would 
not  fight  to  undo  a  fait  accompli,  Calhoun  was  convinced.  Texas  was 
interesting  to  England  only  so  long  as  it  remained  independent,  and  her 
ideals  for  the  Lone  Star  Republic  could  not  compete  with  her  economic 
ambitions  for  Oregon. 

In  February,  1845,  Calhoun's  health  gave  way.  He  contracted  a  'con- 
jestive  fever/  so  severe  that  for  several  days  his  life  hung  in  the  balance. 
Worn  out  from  the  months  of  work,  he  had  little  strength  to  fight  infection, 
and  Francis  Wharton,  who  visited  him  in  his  bedroom  at  the  United  States 
Hotel,  was  shocked  at  his  emaciation  and  weakness.  Coughing,  his  cheeks 
flushed  with  fever,  his  recovery  had  been  visibly  thrown  back  by  the  neces- 
sity of  seeing  visitors  and  working  at  full  speed  from  the  moment  he  had 
been  able  to  leave  his  bed.  He  wrote  his  family  that  he  was  'completely 


380  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

restored/  but  to  Wharton  he  admitted  that  his  health  was  breaking  and 
that  he  longed  now  for  nothing  but  complete  retirement.60 


17 

But  there  was  no  rest  for  him  in  the  next  four  weeks.  Time  was  running 
short.  He  knew  that  he  would  not  return  to  the  Cabinet,  even  if  Polk  asked 
him;  and  Polk  had  no  intention  of  asking  him,  having  no  desire  to  shine 
as  the  lesser  light  in  his  own  Administration.  He  was  unmoved  by  a  curt 
reminder  from  Duff  Green  that  'anything  necessitating'  the  departure  of 
Mr.  Calhoun  would  be  'against  the  principles  for  which  you  were  elected/ 
Principles?  What  had  principles  to  do  with  elections? 

Calhoun  knew  that  he  must  play  to  win.  He  had  never  admitted  failure; 
he  would  not  do  so  now.  He  could  not  be  scrupulous  in  his  methods  or 
instruments.  At  his  shoulder  John  Tyler  sounded  the  keynote  for  those 
last  frantic  days.  It  mattered  not  'how'  annexation  was  accomplished,  'but 
whether  it  shall  be  accomplished,  or  not.' ei 

There  was  a  way  out,  but  hitherto  Calhoun  had  hesitated  to  use  it. 
Several  years  before,  Robert  Walker  had  suggested  two  means  of  acquiring 
territory;  either  by  treaty  or  by  joint  resolution  of  the  two  houses  of 
Congress.  It  was  upon  this  second  method  that  Calhoun  seized. 

Not  even  McDuffie  believed  that  he  would  have  'the  audacity'  to  do  it. 
Not  even  this  close  friend  knew  the  fanatic  determination  of  Calhoun. 
No  act  of  his  career  has  been  more  scourged  by  history:  that  Calhoun,  the 
strict  constitutionalist,  the  doctrinaire  who  had  raged  in  holy  horror  at 
Jackson's  evasions  of  constitutional  safeguards  in  the  name  of  the  popular 
will,  should  interpret  the  election  as  a  mandate  for  the  admission  of  Texas, 
should,  in  the  opinion  of  many,  violate  the  Constitution,  the  symbol  of 
'our  peculiar  and  sublime  political  system.' 

That  his  move,  based  as  it  was  on  majority  opinion  and  majority  rule, 
was  in  defiance  of  his  federal  theories,  cannot  be  denied.  Yet  there  was 
nothing  more  'unconstitutional'  about  it  than  there  had  been  in  the  pur- 
chase of  Louisiana  forty  years  before.  Neither  treaty  nor  joint  resolution 
was  specifically  mentioned  in  the  Constitution  as  the  method  for  acquiring 
territory;  and  in  signing  the  treaty  for  Louisiana,  even  Jefferson  had  ad- 
mitted that,  as  a  'strict  constructionist,'  he  had  'done  an  act  beyond  the 
Constitution.' e2 

No  doubts  troubled  Calhoun.  At  his  side  stood  a  powerful  ally,  none 
other  than  Daniel  Webster,  the  'Defender  of  the  Constitution'  himself, 
who  insisted  that  he  could  see  nothing  unconstitutional  in  Calhoun's 
position.  He  did  feel  compelled  to  add,  however,  that  if  the  principle  were 
invoked  too  frequently,  America  might  wake  up  one  morning  to  find  all 
Canada  annexed  to  the  Federal  Union.63 


XXII  CALHOUN   AND   THE   LONE   STAR  381 

Calhoun's  'conclusive  reason/  however,  had  little  to  do  with  the  Con- 
stitution. A  treaty  required  the  two-thirds  vote  of  the  Senate,  'which  could 
hardly  be  expected,  if  we  are  to  judge  from  recent  experience.'  A  joint 
resolution  required  but  a  simple  majority  of  both  houses,  and  thus  was 
'the  only  certain  mode  by  which  annexation  could  be  effected.'64  He 
would  not  again  risk  the  hazard  of  defeat  under  the  two-thirds  rule.  And 
less  partisan  history  has  had  admiration  for  the  man  who  scorned  to  let 
a  'small  group  of  wilful  men'  defeat  a  great  national  objective. 


18 

Calhoun  had  calculated  correctly.  By  a  reasonably  safe  vote,  and  with  a 
reasonable  amount  of  approval,  Congress  did  pass  the  joint  resolution. 
Calhoun  sounded  the  final  word,  'act  without  delay.'  On  March  1,  1845, 
the  President  approved  the  resolution;  the  next  day  the  Cabinet  met  to 
express  its  acquiescence.  Late  on  the  night  of  March  3,  a  few  hours  before 
his  Presidency  ended,  John  .Tyler  and  Secretary  of  State  Calhoun  signed 
and  sent  off  the  dispatch  inviting  Texas  to  enter  the  American  Union. 
Final  action  would  be  taken  by  Polk,  but  to  all  practical  purposes  Calhoun 
and  Tyler  had  added  to  the  American  Union  the  greatest  expanse  of  terri- 
tory since  the  purchase  of  Louisiana. 

Calhoun's  work  was  done.  Mindful  of  his  own  dismay,  when  confronted 
with  the  immensity  of  the  State  Department,  he  remained  in  Washington 
a  few  days  to  assist  the  new  Secretary,  James  Buchanan.  On  March  10, 
1845,  as  crowds  gathered  in  Texas  to  cheer  the  annexation,  Calhoun 
started  home.  There  was  nothing  in  his  career  of  which  he  was  more  proud 
than  of  this  crowning  act  of  his  term  as  Secretary  of  State. 


xxni 

The  Master  of  Fort  Hill 


WITH  THE  POSSIBLE  EXCEPTION  of  George  Washington,  no  American 
statesman  has  been  more  thoroughly  dehumanized  than  John  C.  Calhoun. 
The  'uncrowned  king'  of  South  Carolina  has  suffered  the  fate  of  the  'f ather 
of  his  country'  in  having  his  virtues  magnified  into  pomposities,  his  faults 
gilded  by  hero-worship.  It  took  a  hundred  years  to  excavate  George 
Washington  from  the  layers  of  priggish  perfection  under  which  the  idoliz- 
ing Weems  had  buried  him.  And  John  Calhoun's  Parson  Weems  was  Miss 
Mary  Bates. 

This  little  New  England  schoolmarm,  who  came  to  Fort  Hill  as  gover- 
ness to  the  Calhoun  children,  worshiped  her  great  employer.  She  confided 
her  interpretations  of  him  to  a  little  pamphlet  entitled  'The  Private  Life 
of  John  C.  Calhoun,'  which  contains  the  undoubted  proof  that  a  man  can 
be  a  hero  to  his  children's  governess  if  not  to  his  valet.  Yet  in  her  attempts 
at  deification,  Miss  Bates  is  responsible  for  a  statement  that  has  darkened 
Calhoun's  name  for  seventy  years.  *I  never  heard  him  utter  a  jest,'  x  she 
declared.  Perhaps  she  never  did.  Probably  her  own  atmosphere  was  suf- 
ficiently chilling  to  cool  her  idol's  moments  of  warmth.  But  John  Quincy 
Adams  in  his  Diary  more  than  once  deplored  Calhoun's  tendency  to  joke 
on  serious  political  matters  and  his  outbursts  of  mirth  at  inopportune 
moments  of  Cabinet  debate;  2  and  Anna  Maria  Clemson  and  James 
Edward  Colhoun  were  also  aware  of  Calhoun's  unmistakable  flashes  of 
humor. 

Miss  Bates  was  apparently  distressed  that  so  abstemious  a  man  as  her 
famed  employer  did  not  share  her  enthusiasm  for  the  principles  of  the 
Christian  Temperance  Union.  Perhaps  she  was  blissfully  unaware  of  his 
youthful  days  when  he  was  happily  raising  his  own  grapes  and  making 
his  own  wine,  but  there  was  no  mistaking  his  meaning  when  he  'kindly' 
told  Miss  Bates  that  he  believed  she  was  carrying  things  'a  little  too  far.' 
He  had  small  'relish'  for  whiskey,  brandy,  or  rum,  which  he  regarded  more 
as  medicine  than  beverages,3  but  he  was  fond  of  claret  and  served  it  at 
his  dinner  table.  It  must  have  been  difficult  for  her  to  reconcile  this  with 
her  belief  that  he  was  superior  'to  those  things  which  the  natural  heart 


XXIH  THE  MASTER  OF   FORT  HILL  383 

most  craves  ...  he  was  so  purely  intellectual,  so  free  from  self-indul- 
gence ...  he  did  not  even  indulge  himself  in  a  cigar.' 4 

Calhoun  did  not  indulge  himself  in  cigars.  He  happened  to  prefer  his 
tobacco  in  other  forms.  He  took  snuff,  perhaps  without  the  dash  and  flair  of 
Henry  Clay,  but  often  enough  to  give  rise  to  a  slogan,  'When  Calhoun  took 
snuff,  South  Carolina  sneezed.3  5  And  at  Fort  Hill  his  morning  smoke  was 
something  of  a  ritual.  Every  day  after  breakfast  young  Cato  was  sent  to 
the  kitchen  with  a  pair  of  tiny  wire  tongs  to  pick  up  a  live  coal  for  his 
master's  pipe.  While  Calhoun  was  'lighting  up,'  the  boy  would  lug  a 
bucket  of  cold  water  to  the  office  and  make  it  ready  for  the  day's  work.* 

An  outside  office  was  a  fixture  on  the  Southern  plantation,  where  un- 
written law  declared  that  the  overseer  must  never  enter  the  dwelling 
house.  At  Fort  Hill  it  was  a  tiny  white  clapboarded  structure  behind  the 
living-room  ell,  with  a  miniature  porch  and  four  white  columns  across  the 
front.  Only  one  story  high,  it  was  kept  endurably  and  damply  cool  by 
the  icehouse  in  the  cellar,  and  the  shade  from  Admiral  Decatur's  varnish 
tree,  Henry  Clay's  arbor-vitae,  and  Webster's  hemlock,  all  standing  near, 
and  all  gifts  to  Calhoun  through  the  years.  Inside  was  a  somber,  untidy 
man's  room,  the  gloom  of  oak-painted  walls,  bookcase,  and  pine  table 
accented  by  the  tall  black  mantel  over  the  fireplace.  There  was  a  com- 
fortable lounging  chair,  a  cabinet  with  a  secret  compartment,  where  Cal- 
houn kept  his  private  correspondence,  and  a  massive,  scarred,  mahogany 
desk,  on  which  he  wrote  his  nullification  papers  and  his  book,  and  at  which 
he  devoted  one  or  two  whole  days  a  week  merely  to  answering  his  mail. 
On  the  one  handsome  piece  of  furniture  in  the  room — &  carved  rosewood 
table,  with  a  top  of  black-veined,  Italian  marble — were  heaped  letters 
from  celebrities  all  over  the  world:  politicians,  scholars,  poets,  philosophers, 
and  preachers.  But  near  the  table  was  a  wastebasket,  and  this,  too,  was 
usually  filled  with  letters,  these  from  unknown  or  anonymous  writers,  some 
frankly  hero-worshiping,  others  of  censure  or  abuse.  Whatever  their  nature, 
Calhoun  threw  them  away,  scarcely  read,  from  which  fate  the  fan  mail, 
at  least,  was  secretly  rescued  by  Anna  Maria  or  Cornelia.7 

The  bookcase  extended  out  into  the  room,  its  contents  available  from 
either  the  front  or  the  back.  Here  were  practically  all  the  books  in  the 
family,  for  Floride,  who  was  no  great  reader,  got  her  Tales  of  the  Good 
Woman,  Bluestocking  Hall,  and  Sailors  and  Saints  from  the  Pendleton 
Library  Society;  8  but  all  Calhoun's  marked  and  worn  favorites  were,  there: 
Plutarch  and  Aristotle;  the  farmer's  poet,  Virgil,  the  histories  of  Rome  and 
of  Poland,  his  Plato,  in  which  he  once  declared  could  be  found  the  whole 
Constitution  of  the  United  States,  the  old  volume  on  the  diseases  of  cattle 
which  Floride  had  brought  him  at  the  time  of  their  marriage,  a  modernized 
version  of  the  Bible,  and  the  'Ossianic'  poems.9  On  the  wall  hung  a  large 
chart  which  he  had  bought  for  the  amusement  and  instruction  of  his 
children.  A  fascinating  curiosity  it  was,  made  up  of  revolving  disks,  which 


384  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

asked  various  questions  on  American  history  and  geography,  with  different 
answers  for  each  of  the  states.  Deer  antlers  and  bearskins  alternated  with 
great  maps  of  South  Carolina,  Texas,  and  the  Louisiana  Purchase;  a 
picture  of  Calhoun's  'best  friend  and  worst  enemy,'  Henry  Clay,  hung  near 
an  autographed  pose  of  Davy  Crockett,  hero  of  the  Alamo. 

A  ship  model  of  the  Constitution  adorned  the  mantel;  in  a  corner 
Cornelia's  little  crutches  often  leaned  against  her  father's  jointed  fishing 
rod,  for  she  spent  hours  with  him,  frequently  writing  to  his  dictation.  The 
relation  between  Calhoun  and  this  little  girl  was  especially  tender.  A  fall 
from  a  swing  had  injured  her  spine,  and  her  years  had  been  spent  in 
agonizing  waits  and  examinations  in  doctors'  offices,  her  parents'  hopes 
rising  as  their  finances  dwindled.  But  not  even  the  great  Philadelphia 
surgeon,  Dr.  Philip  Syng  Physick,  could  'restore'  Cornelia.  Although 
crippled,  she  was  content;  she  was  'bright/  although  not  intellectual.  'I 
am  especially  relieved  to  know  Cornelia  has  become  fond  of  her  books,' 
Calhoun  once  wrote  home,  'as  I  had  almost  despaired  that  she  ever 
would.' 10  When  at  home  it  was  he  who  nursed  her,  petted  her,  spoiled  her, 
granted  her  the  freedom  of  his  'sacred'  office  and  his  newspapers.  And  if 
she  opened  and  read  his  favorite  magazines,  even  when  he  was  longing 
to  see  them,  he  refused  to  have  her  disturbed  until  she  had  finished. 


No  one  really  knew  Calhoun  who  did  not  know  him  at  Fort  Hill.  Fort  Hill 
was  the  symbol  of  all  in  life  that  he  prized.  Understanding  his  love  for 
his  plantation,  we  can  understand  all  the  surface  vagaries  and  incon- 
sistencies of  his  career.  'After  all,5  he  said,  'there  is  no  life  like  a  farmer's 
life,  and  no  pursuit  like  that  of  agriculture.' lx 

Unlike  Webster  at  Marshfield,  Calhoun  was  no  'squire'  or  'laird'  to 
his  Pendleton  neighbors.  He  had  no  artificial  rules  such  as  Webster  en- 
forced at  home,  forbidding  all  discussion  of  law  or  politics.  Political  dis- 
cussion was  as  essential  to  these  'Southern  farmers  as  eating  or  sleeping. 
To  Webster,  Marshfield  was  the  escape;  to  Calhoun,  Fort  Hill  was  the 
reality.  Webster's  biographer  was  puzzled  by  'the  representative  of  bankers 
and  manufacturers'  finding  his  'chief  delight  in  agriculture.' **  In  Calhoun 
were  no  such  tensions.  He  moved  among  his  neighbors,  'the  great  Mr. 
Calhoun,'  a  'lion  even  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  own  house,' 1S  yet  one  of 
them.  Intellectually  few  of  his  contemporaries  knew  or  understood  him, 
but  emotionally  he  was  a  man  whom  they  could  all  know  and  understand. 

For  so  complex  a  man  Calhoun's  wants  were  very  simple.  Good  health, 
good  crops,  and  his  family,  were  all  that  he  asked  of  life.  At  Fort  Hill 
he  was  content,  at  peace  with  himself  and  in  harmony  with  his  entire  ex- 
istence. He  loved  it  all,  the  quiet  hours  with  his  books,  his  visitors,  the 


THE  MASTER  OF   FORT  HILL  385 

flower  garden  where  bloomed  the  cuttings  that  he  himself  had  planted 
and  chosen,  the  long  twilights  on  the  porch,  when  brush-fires  glowed  against 
the  darkness.  'He  knew  the  zest  of  life/  declared  his  cousin  James,  'only 
and  fully  at  his  home/ 14 

In  the  work  of  the  farm  he  found  outlet  for  all  his  energies,  and  at  the 
height  of  the  planting  season  was  often  in  the  saddle  from  seven-thirty 
in  the  morning  until  the  dark  of  night.  The  days  were  not  long  enough 
for  all  that  he  wanted  to  do.  Whether  he  kept  the  usual  planter's  day-book 
is  unknown,  but  some  idea  of  his  problems  can  be  obtained  from  a  study 
of  the  plantation-book  of  his  friend,  William  Lowndes.  There  would  be 
the  distribution  of  the  blankets,  of  the  'pease'  and  potato  allowances,  the 
allotments  of  rice  and  corn,  the  problems  of  ditching  and  the  new  'head 
Dam';  the  problem  of  how  many  bushels  of  seed  to  the  acre.15 

With  his  analytical  mind  Calhoun  might  have  figured  out,  as  Lowndes 
did,  the  number  of  'hands'  used  to  make  shingles  and  of  coopers  to  make 
barrels,  estimating  that  'two  fellows  should  fell  20  trees  per  day/  and  that 
'in  threshing  a  whole  day  2  Men  or  3  Women  should  thresh  1200 
sheaves.' 16  Where  Lowndes  had  drawn  a  plan  for  his  new  cotton  gin,  Cal- 
houn might  have  drawn  a  rough  outline  of  his  new  grist  mill.  Nor  could 
the  distribution  of  the  specialized  work  of  the  plantation  be  entirely  left 
to  the  overseer's  decision.  It  required  time  and  thought  to  weigh  the 
abilities  and  inclinations  of  each  young  'hand'  so  that  plowman,  weaver, 
carpenter,  cooper,  herdsman,  driver,  wagoner,  shoemaker,  and  wheel- 
wright might  be  most  usefully  and  efficiently  fitted  into  the  economic  unit 
of  the  plantation-state. 

What  most  amazed  those  who  thought  of  Calhoun  as  a  dreamer  and 
theorist  was  the  hard-headed  practicality  with  which  he  farmed.17  Twenty 
years  in  Washington  had  cost  him  nothing  of  his  almost  instinctive  skills 
and  understandings  of  the  land.  He  dared  to  be  different,  to  experiment. 
Everything  that  the  land  would  grow  he  planted:  figs,  melons,  pear  trees, 
mulberries.  A  hollow  in  one  of  the  bottoms,  where  the  stagnant  water 
lingered,  troubled  him.  He  finally  planted  it  in  rice,  and  to  the  amazement 
of  the  neighborhood,  drew  an  annual  yield  enough  to  supply  his  entire 
family. 

Occasionally  his  interests  spurted  in  strange  directions.  He  tried  cattle- 
breeding,  crossing  a  dark,  red,  humpbacked  'sacred  cow'  to  the  swamp 
cattle  of  the  marsh  lands.  Another  year  it  was  grapes;  and  by  sheer  per- 
sistence, he  made  the  'first  successful  attempts  at  grape  culture  in  that  part 
of  the  country.'  One  year  it  was  silkworms,  and  for  months  the  family  was 
subjected  to  an  invasion  of  cocoons,  dropping  unheralded  from  the  shelves 
of  every  closet,  barn,  storehouse,  and  outbuilding  on  the  plantation.  Net 
result:  three  silk  suits  for  Calhoun. 

He  even  pitted  himself  against  soil  erosion,  the  most  terrible  problem  the 
Southern  farmer  had  to  face.  That  the  plantation  system  was  wasteful, 


386  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

even  its  devotees  knew;  year  by  year  you  could  watch  the  spread  of  the 
'old  fields,'  washed  and  worn  away  by  thundering  rains  and  careless  cotton 
planting.  But  Calhoun  had  a  solution.  His  neighbors  might  shake  their 
heads  with  amusement  when  he  planted  peavines  with  the  corn,  sowed 
the  fields  with  Siberian  wheat  and  the  lawns  with  Bermuda  grass.  They 
wondered  at  his  carefully  terraced  hillsides  and  'peculiar3  methods  of 
'ditching,  drainage,  and  planting.5  But  they  read  their  answer  in  the  earth 
itself.  In  years  when  rain  splashed  their  fields  with  gullies  and  the  streams 
ran  red  with  topsoil,  Calhoun's  land  lay  unbroken  and  his  yield  was  as 
rich  as  before.18 

It  was  not  all  easy.  There  was  the  year  of  the  big  drought,  with  the 
cotton  'small  and  backward'  and  the  corn  'low.'  There  was  the  year  of  the 
big  yield  when  the  bolls  swelled  on  the  vines  and  the  corn  shot  up  as  if 
reaching  for  the  sun  that  gave  it  growth.  But  that,  too,  was  the  year 
when  cotton  tumbled  below  five  cents  a  pound;  and  market  news  brought 
from  a  late  steamer  cost  Calhoun  two  thousand  dollars,  just  after  he  had 
made  five  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  improvements.  But  on  the  whole  the 
land  gave  him  rich  return  for  his  care.  That  even  in  a  drought  he  could 
make  an  average  crop  if  the  work  were  under  his  own  supervision,  he 
wrote  Clemson,  'speaks  pretty  well  for  my  farming.' ia 

At  Fort  Hill  were  the  best  quarters,  the  best  breeds  of  stock,  and  the 
finest  crops  in  the  entire  county.  A  'model  farm'  was  the  verdict  of  the 
members  of  a  learned  agricultural  committee,  who  inspected  the  place  in 
1844.  They  watched  as  the  lanky  owner  staked  off  his  graded  ditches, 
gauged  the  width  of  the  fireplaces  and  the  cross-sweep  of  ventilation  in 
the  long  stone  quarters,  and  looked  with  unconcealed  admiration  on  the 
fat  red  Devon  cows,  imported  from  England  a  few  years  before.  Yet  for 
Calhoun,  the  incurable  perfectionist,  their  praise  was  not  enough.  The 
chafing  knowledge  that  he  could  give  only  a  fraction  of  his  time  to  the 
work  he  loved  most  dulled  the  edge  of  his  enjoyment;  and  to  James  Col- 
houn  he  once  burst  out,  'If  I  had  not  been  in  public  life,  my  crop  would 
easily  be  a  thousand  bales.' 20 


His  retirement  from  the  State  Department  in  1845  gave  him  six  consecu- 
tive months  at  Fort  Hill.  For  one  half-year,  he  could  give  himself  up  to 
the  sheer  enjoyment  of  the  life  he  loved.  Now  time  was  not  marked  off 
by  days  on  a  calendar,  but  by  the  pulse  and  rhythm  of  the  life  about  him. 
It  was  March  when  he  came  home,  and  the  red  day  hills  looked  de- 
ceptively barren  and  bare.  Finished  were  the  tasks  of  winter:  the  slaughter- 
ing of  the  hogs,  the  hauling  of  ice  and  wood,  and  the  turning  of  the  low 
ground  stubble.  It  was  cotton-planting  time  now;  a  yoke  of  oxen  were 


XXIH  THE   MASTER  OF  FORT  HILL  387 

slowly  plowing  around  the  rugged  slopes;  the  'hands'  were  hard  at  work, 
drilling  oats,  rolling  and  cutting  logs,  clearing  ground,  and  burning  brush. 
Now  and  then  the  fires  went  out  of  control,  and  Calhoun  would  be  out 
fighting  the  flames  with  his  Negroes  and  the  help  of  such  few  neighbors 
as  might  see  the  blur  of  smoke  against  the  sky.21 

By  April,  the  'hands'  were  walking  up  and  down  the  fresh-cut  rows, 
'drapping  corn.'  The  last  of  the  spring  labors  were  completed:  the  rails 
hauled  up,  the  briars  cut,  more  rows  plowed,  more  drilling  for  cotton  and 
for  corn.  June  and  July  were  the  months  of  hoeing  and  hilling,  of  plowing 
the  corn  and  cutting  the  oats,  of  scraping  down  the  cotton  and  thrashing 
the  grain.  The  old  fields  were  green;  across  from  the  house  on  Fort  Hill 
the  harvested  wheat  was  standing  in  shocks.  August — and  the  fierce,  slow 
heat  of  deep  summer,  even  the  air  from  the  mountains  languid  and  warm — 
it  was  resting  time  now,  the  time  of  family  reunions  and  all-day  'sings'; 
and  Calhoun,  looking  on  the  curving  rows  of  cotton  flowers  in  their  pink 
bloom,  might  have  thought  of  his  own  boyhood  when  he  had  known  the 
meaning  of  heat  and  thirst  and  the  weariness  and  deep  exhausted  sleep 
that  comes  after  an  August  day  in  a  cotton  field.22  And  there  was  still 
work  to  be  done,  oats  to  be  hauled  and  stacked,  fodder  to  be  pulled,  extra 
buckets  of  water  to  be  drawn  from  the  well,  buckets  of  milk  to  be  lowered 
into  the  cool  darkness. 

September  was  still  planting  time  and  picking  time,  time  to  sow  the 
turnips  and  dig  the  yams,  time  to  pick  the  cotton.  By  October,  the  last 
white  sack,  dragging  along  the  row  behind  the  field  hand,  lay  flat  and 
empty;  the  great  wagons  were  loaded;  mules  moved  forward,  heads  bent, 
neck  and  back  muscles  straining;  huge  wheels  creaked  and  groaned  their 
way  down  the  red,  rutted  road  to  the  gin. 

In  the  evening,  time  flowed  more  slowly;  Calhoun  walked,  instead  of 
rode,  sometimes  a  rifle  in  his  hands,  or  a  stick,  as  long  as  his  vigorous 
strides.  Work  was  stilled;  he  could  take  the  road  down  by  the  quarters, 
look  across  the  cornfields  to  the  hills  beyond,  white  with  their  load  of 
cotton.  Or  he  could  walk  down  the  path  to  the  river,  where  the  garnet 
day  shifted  off  into  red,  into  rose,  into  yellow  sand  and  mud;  and  the 
pine  trees  in  stem  blackness  crowned  the  ridge  of  the  hill.  Where  steep 
little  hills  rushed  down  to  narrow  ravines  at  the  bottom,  he  could  look 
down  on  the  floating  softness  of  dogwood  petals.  A  few  steps  more — and 
the  Seneca  glinted  through  the  tangled  branches;  and  the  warm  pink 
undertone  of  the  river-bed  glowed  through  the  silvery  rush  of  water. 

Calhoun  had  'gazed  in  rapture'  on  some  of  the  most  beautiful  scenery 
in  the  land.  He  knew  the  sea-green  mist  on  the  Litchfield  hills  in  the 
spring,  the  great  fields  of  Pennsylvania  with  their  stout  cattle  and  their 
ripe  warm  earth  exposed  to  sun  and  plow.  He  had  looked  on  the  green 
valleys  and  softly  rolling  hillsides  in  southern  Virginia,  where  the  first 
generation  of  American  Calhouns  had  broken  soil  and  built  their  cabins 


388  JOHN  C.  CALHOUN 

and  dreamed  their  dreams.  But  nothing  could  mean  so  much  to  him  as  Fort 
Hill  itself,  the  river,  the  hills,  the  flame-streaked  sunsets,  the  giant  red 
oaks  veiled  in  mist,  the  fruit  orchards,  the  fields  of  swaying  grain,  the 
green  pastures  in  their  dark  borders  of  pine,  the  forests  and  the  mountains 
beyond.  Nothing  on  earth  had  such  power  to  stir  him  and  to  bring  him 
peace. 


The  house  seemed  a  part  of  its  surroundings.  Long,  narrow,  and  white,  it 
rambled  across  the  top  of  a  hill.  From  the  left  a  double-row  of  cedars 
swung  in  a  half-circle  to  the  north  portico;  at  the  lower  right,  above  a 
high  stone  cellar,  stood  the  spring-house,  where  milk,  butter,  and  cream 
were  kept  cool  even  on  the  hottest  days. 

A  flower  garden,  bordered  with  wild-orange  trees,  lay  in  front  of  the 
house,  and  spreading  from  it  were  smaller  beds,  hemmed  in  ten-inch  box. 
A  vast  park  of  virgin  oaks  and  towering  poplars  surrounded  the  garden, 
and  beyond,  in  all  directions,  lay  panoramic  sweeps  of  beauty.  Far  to 
the  left,  like  white  birches  against  the  green,  rose  the  spires  of  Pendleton. 
From  the  rear  descended  a  wooded  valley.  Ahead,  sixty  miles  distant  into 
North  Carolina,  surged  the  mighty  range  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  now  dark 
and  clear,  now  fading  back  into  layers  of  mist. 

It  would  be  all  changed  a  hundred  years  later.  The  brick  dormitories 
of  Clemson  College  would  close  in  from  three  directions,  with  gray  uni- 
formed cadets  hurrying  through  the  park  where  the  deer  and  the  bear 
had  run  two  centuries  before.  Amidst  the  hurly-burly  of  a  college  campus, 
only  the  house  in  its  tiny  plot  of  box-patterned  lawn  was  the  same.  Coming 
upon  it  suddenly  at  night,  it  would  gleam  out  of  the  darkness,  its  white 
walls  and  tall  white  columns  keeping  the  same  remote  look  of  withdrawal 
that  Calhoun  must  have  known.  There  was  still  the  gentle  slope  to  the 
roof,  the  massive  chimney  crumbling. against  the  side,  the  forsythia  bushes 
spraying  into  fountains  of  yellow  bloom.  Behind  the  cedars  and  the  veiling 
of  the  locust  trees,  the  house  stood  unchanged.  Nothing  could  shatter  its 
aloof  beauty,  its  look  of  infinite  peace. 

It  was  later,  more  pretentious  generations  that  would  call  Fort  Hill 
a  mansion.  Actually  it  was  only  an  overgrown  farmhouse  with  little  archi- 
tectural distinction  unless  it  were  the  beautifully  carved  mantels  from 
Charleston.  Except  for  the  broad  central  hallway,  it  hardly  differed  from 
the  gaunt  sturdy  farmhouses  of  New  England. 

Coils  of  trumpet  vines  and  rambler  roses  around  the  windows  and  a 
green  latticework  of  vines  stretching  from  column  to  column  on  the 
porches  softened  the  dwelling's  austerity.  The  dominant  impression  the 
house  gave  was  strangely  like  that  of  Calhoun  himself.  It  combined 


FORT  HILL 

The  earliest  view  now  known,  taken  in  the  latter  part  of 

the  19th  Century.  The  house  had  at  this  time  changed  very 

little  since  Calhoun's  day.  Courtesy  of  Mr.  J.  C.  Little  John, 

Clemson,  South  Carolina 


XXHI  THE   MASTER    OF    FORT   HILL  389 

the  strength  of  the  pioneering  log  cabins  with  the  simplicity  of  a  Greek 
temple.  Here  the  most  haughty  of  coastal  planters  or  the  plainest  of  back- 
country  farmers  could  feel  perfectly  at  home.23 

Floride's  'improvements'  had  resulted  in  a  startling  informality  of  design. 
What  looked  like  the  front  door  under  the  stately  north  portico  was 
actually  the  back;  the  front  was  at  the  side!  But  once  within,  not  even 
the  most  discriminating  of  Charlestonian  visitors  could  have  found  fault 
with  the  long  drawing  room  between  the  two  columned  porches.  Here  hung 
the  family  portraits,  Anna  Maria  with  a  secret  smile  on  her  lips  and  old 
Mrs.  Floride  Colhoun,  bushy-haired  and  wild-eyed  as  she  had  been  in 
life.  Below  were  grouped  striped  silk-velvet  chairs,  and  at  the  fireside  an 
elaborately  carved  chair  presented  to  Calhoun  by  the  King  of  the  Belgians. 
A  glittering  candelabrum  cast  a  soft  glow  on  the  hand-knit  lace  curtains. 
It  was  a  gracious  room,  a  beautiful  room,  but  designed  for  company — and 
for  Floride.  It  is  difficult  to  imagine  Calhoun  cramping  his  long  legs  into 
the  confines  of  the  mohair  and  mahogany  sofa  with  the  twisted  dolphin 
feet,  while  Floride  tinkled  waltzes  on  the  spinet.  He  would  have  preferred 
the  porches,  following  the  shade  from  side  to  side  of  the  house;  or,  if  the 
company  was  too  assertively  masculine  for  family  taste,  there  was  always 
the  privacy  of  his  own  sanctum,  the  office. 

The  state  dining  room  across  the  hall  was  a  long  room,  low-studded  and 
stately  as  its  name,  with  a  high  black  mantel  brooding  at  one  end  and 
a  high  narrow  sideboard  at  the  other.  This  buffet — beyond  all  else  the 
most  beautiful  piece  of  furniture  in  the  house — was  Calhoun's  pride.  It 
had  been  given  to  him  by  Henry  Clay,  who  owned  its  twin,  and  was  made 
— so  legend  said — of  mahogany  from  the  cabin  of  the  frigate  Constitution, 
a  fitting  gift  from  one  War  Hawk  to  another.24 

Here  were  the  green  decanters,  the  red  wine  bottles,  the  plain  silver  re- 
flected in  the  sheen  of  the  two  Duncan  Phyfe  tables.  Each  one  was  five  by 
twelve  feet,  and  they  could  be  pushed  together  for  those  fabulous  twenty- 
nine-course  banquets  on  which  county  legend  lingers — and  which  may 
actually  have  taken  place  once  or  twice  in  twenty-five  years. 

A  lone  guest  might  join  Floride  and  her  husband  at  the  round  mahogany 
table  in  the  family  dining  room.  This  was  the  old  kitchen  of  simpler  days, 
and  to  Calhoun  probably  seemed  the  pleasantest  room  in  the  house.  Here, 
from  the  north  windows,  was  the  best  view  of  the  mountains  he  loved; 
and  even  on  damp  days  there  was  cheer  in  the  leaping  flames  of  a  great 
six-foot  fireplace  with  its  wide,  brick  hearth  and  swinging  crane.  Here, 
too,  banished  from  the  more  formal  rooms,  were  the  rough-hewn  heir- 
looms from  Calhoun's  up-country  boyhood,  the  pine  paneled  cupboard,  the 
ladder-backed  chairs,  the  spinning  wheels.  For  Calhoun,  this  was  a  room 
redolent  with  memories. 

Upstairs  guest  room  after  guest  room  straggled  across  the  house.  Furnish- 
ings were  a  hodge-podge  of  canopy  beds,  spool  beds,  with  post  spools 


390  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

gigantically  swollen  in  accordance  with  Floride's  attempts  at  furniture 
design,  the  sleigh  bed  of  their  early  married  days,  French  mahogany 
bureaus  and  'modern'  black  walnut  ones  with  marble  tops.  But  to  strangers 
the  novelty  would  have  been  found  in  the  small  rooms  next  the  bedrooms, 
for  here  were  dour,  tin,  bathing  tubs,  approximately  the  size  and  shape 
of  the  latter-day  Western  sombreros — awesome  objects,  for  of  course  it 
was  well  known  that  bathing  in  a  tub  gave  you  'lung-fever.' 

Calhoun  and  Floride  slept  downstairs.  Their  chamber,  long  and  over- 
looking the  rear  flower  garden,  opened  from  a  little  nursery  for  the  youngest 
child;  and  where  now  Anna  Maria's  doll-bed  and  dresser  were  kept  for 
old  memory's  sake.  The  furniture  was  depressing;  a  huge  black  walnut 
bed,  headboard  towering  to  the  ceiling,  matched  to  a  wardrobe,  equally 
grim,  and  both  of  Floride's  design. 

The  hallways  Calhoun  had  stamped  with  the  mark  of  his  own  person- 
ality. Along  the  walls  hung  the  antlers  of  the  deer  he  had  shot;  below, 
spread  on  tables,  were  newspapers  sent  to  him  from  all  corners  of  the 
country  and  displayed  for  the  benefit  of  his  guests.  Here  in  these  halls  he 
walked  at  night  when  grappling  with  thought,  or  on  days  when  rain  made 
outdoor  exercise  impossible — the  doors  flung  open  to  the  porches  beyond 
and  the  air  soaked  with  the  scents  of  grass  and  roses  and  the  pungency  of 
boxwood.25 

Everything  about  Fort  Hill  was  designed  to  make  a  guest  feel  completely 
at  home.  Whatever  the  fluctuations  of  the  cotton  market  or  Calhoun's 
bank  account,  'open  house'  was  the  rule.  Any  guest,  whether  in  'broadcloth 
or  jeans,'  was  welcome  to  stay  the  night,  and  was  received  with  an  open- 
handed  generosity  that  left  Charlestonians — themselves  no  mean  hosts — 
reminiscing  about  the  'hearty  hospitality'  at  Fort  Hill,  years  after  Cal- 
houn's death.  The  dining  tables  staggered  with  food;  'everything  of 
Southern  production,'  one  observer  thought;  and  although  Calhoun  never 
took  undue  interest  in  what  he  ate,  he  was  not  immune  to  the  allurements 
of  'excellent  coffee/  'delicious  cream,'  and  hot,  snow-white  hominy  grits, 
swimming  in  country  butter.  The  choicest  dishes  were  selected  for  the 
visitor,  but  for  a  guest  who  had  the  ill  judgment  to  decline  an  invitation 
to  family  prayers,  Calhoun's  command  was  peremptory:  'Saddle  the  man's 
horse  and  let  him  go.' 26 


The  state  dining  room  was  a  favorite  gathering  place  for  the  young 
people  of  the  neighborhood,  and  night  after  night  kin  and  'kissing  kin' 
jostied  each  other  around  the  tables.  At  one  party  a  wild  duck  was  placed 
before  a  gangling  youth,  who  was  requested  to  carve  and  serve  it.  Gamely 
the  boy  plunged  a  knife  and  a  fork  into  the  back  with  such  zeal  that 


XXIH  THE   MASTER  OF  FORT  HILL  391 

it  took  off  on  its  kst  flight,  landing  right  in  the  silken  kp  of  a  cousin, 
Martha  Calhoun. 

Conversation  ceased.  Every  eye  was  fixed  on  the  stern  face  of  the  host. 
He  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  In  a  second  burst  of  courage  the  boy  ad- 
dressed him:  'It  wouldn't  have  happened,,  sir/  he  said, ' except  the  duck  had 
have  been  wild.' 27 

Calhoun  relaxed  into  a  broad  grin.  The  crisis  was  over,  and  the  friends 
and  cousins  of  the  Calhoun  boys  continued  to  have  the  freedom  of  Fort 
Hill.  For  Calhoun's  sons  there  was  no  such  loneliness  as  their  father  had 
known.  Boys  were  everywhere,  dashing  under  the  carpenter's  ladders, 
sprawled  on  the  porches,  or  astride  their  horses  on  the  cedar-needled  drive- 
way. Calhoun  on  his  rounds  would  frequently  stop  to  tease  them  for  read- 
ing so  many  'trashy'  novels  or  to  argue  the  comparative  merits  of  rifles 
and  double-barreled  shotguns,  which  latter,  he  asserted,  he  would  never 
waste  upon  a  squirrel. 

Calhoun  liked  to  talk  to  boys.  He  had  a  gift  for  drawing  them  out,  for 
meeting  them  on  their  own  ground.  One  of  his  son's  friends  he  threw  com- 
pletely off  his  guard,  listening  to  his  youthful  political  theories,  then 
modestly  submitting  his  own.  Suddenly  the  boy  realized  that  he  was 
'listening  to  the  greatest  mind  of  the  day,'  and  halted,  overcome  with  em- 
barrassment, despite  Calhoun's  understanding  attempts  to  relieve  it.  Cal- 
houn's nephew,  Ted,  must  also  have  been  overwhelmed  when  his  uncle, 
discovering  him  badly  in  need  of  a  haircut,  told  him  to  wait,  dashed  in 
the  house,  grabbed  Floride's  shears,  and  leading  the  youngster  into  the 
back  yard  speedily  hacked  off  all  surplus  locks.28 


But  only  when  Anna  Maria  was  at  home  was  her  father's  happiness  com- 
plete. With  her,  who  had  shared  his  burdens,  he  now  shared  his  joys,  giv- 
ing way  to  moments  of  'frankest  gaiety'  never  seen  by  his  closest  friends, 
and  least  of  all  by  his  biographers.  Not  the  'Roman  Senator,'  but  the 
father  with  the  'sweet  smile,'  the  'affectionate  voice/  the  'unbending  firm- 
ness of  principle'  united  to  'the  yielding  softness  of  a  woman,'  where  only 
his  feelings  were  in  question — this  was  the  Calhoun  Anna  Maria  knew. 
Interests  that  he  shared  with  her  are  strange,  indeed,  in  a  man  supposedly 
concerned  only  with  cotton  and  slavery. 

'He  loved  and  found  pleasure  in  simple  things,'  Anna  Maria  wrote.  'No 
one  loved  or  appreciated  more  music,  poetry,  or  the  beauties  of  nature/ 
She  was  not  with  her  father  when  he  had  stood  silent  and  awe-struck, 
moment  after  moment,  before  the  majesty  of  the  mountain  ranges  of  North 
Georgia.  But  she  watched  him  thrill  with  'all  the  delight  of  the  most 
imaginative  poet'  at  the  fury  of  a  mountain  storm  or  the  panoramic  sweep 


392  JOHN    C.    CALHOUN 

of  river,  forest,  and  hill.  His  tastes  were  instinctive,  not  cultivated,  but 
none  the  less  real.29  No  one  would  have  suspected  him  of  hidden  artistic 
yearnings,  yet  under  Clemson's  tutelage  'his  latent  artistic  abilities'  were 
manifested  in  a  discriminating  choice  of  minor  pieces  of  European  art 
which  began  to  appear  on  the  walls  of  Fort  Hill,  Clemson  dabbled  in  art 
himself,  not  entirely  unsuccessfully,  as  his  somber  landscapes  and  still  lif es 
at  Clemson  College  reveal;  but  the  neighborhood  legends  that  tell  of 
Calhoun,  equipped  with  umbrella  and  palette,  trying  his  own  paint 
brushes,  are  probably  nothing  more  than  legend.30 


At  dusk  neighbors  and  relatives  would  begin  dropping  in:  Francis  Pickens, 
Colonel  Drayton,  John  Ewing  Colhoun,  and  his  brother,  James  Edward, 
one  by  one  would  mount  the  steps,  find  chairs,  perhaps  draw  them  down 
to  the  south  end  of  the  portico  where  they  could  breathe  the  fresh,  poignant 
scent  of  Calhoun's  favorite  mimosa.  A  Washington  politician  staying  over- 
night at  Fort  Hill  might  join  them;  and  in  his  hard-muscled  and  sun- 
bronzed  host,  around  whose  eyes  were  the  pleasant  curving  lines  of  an 
outdoor  man  he  would  hardly  have  recognized  the  'pale,  slender,  ghostly- 
looking  man'  who  black-robed  strode  along  the  streets  of  the  capital.  In 
Washington,  Daniel  Webster  had  marveled  at  his  South  Carolina  col- 
league's indifference  to  recreation.81  He  would  have  marveled  all  the  more 
could  he  have  been  at  Fort  Hill  with  the  young  British  scientist,  Feather- 
stonhaugh,  leisurely  eating  a  supper  of  cottage  cheese  and  cream  with  his 
distinguished  host;  and  seen  the  'cast-iron  man'  lounging  back  in  his  chair, 
eyes  half-closed,  indulging  in  pleasant  conjectures  as  to  whether  that  lov- 
ing young  couple  across  the  river  were  really  engaged,  after  all.32 

Here  on  this  shadowy  porch,  littered  with  saddles  and  children's  toys, 
newspapers  and  a  forgotten  rifle  or  two,  a  Negro's  fingers  plucking  away 
at  a  guitar,  and  a  dog's  tail  thumping  against  the  floor,  Calhoun  could  at 
last  be  content.  Here  in  the  soft,  throbbing  darkness,  he  smiled  and  talked 
and  laughed  sometimes,  savoring  the  rich  beauty  of  plantation  life. 

What  did  they  talk  about?  An  old  'day-book/  belonging  to  one  of  the 
up-country  planters,  its  jumble  of  ragged  news  clippings,  scrawled  nota- 
tions, and  quaint  recipes  splashed  with  the  brown  stains  of  age,  gives  a 
cross-section  of  what  a  Southern  planter  of  the  eighteen-forties  was  talk- 
ing about  and  thinking  about.  Contrary  to  Northern  conjecture,  it  was  not 
slavery  alone.  The  lull  before  the  storm  was  heavy  over  the  South;  even 
Calhoun,  judging  by  his  correspondence,  had  turned  his  thoughts  to  party 
politics,  and  many  Southerners  could  still  explain  away  abolitionist  at- 
tacks as  mere  jealousy  of  a  competing  labor  system. 

But  the  Southerner  still  had  capacity  for  self-criticism.  He  would  discuss 


XXIII  THE  MASTER  OF  FORT  HILL  393 

the  French  philosopher,  Alexis  de  Tocqueville,  and  his  accusation  that  no 
country  in  the  world  had  'so  little  true  independence  of  mind  ...  as 
America/  the  nation  that  had  'refined  the  arts  of  despotism'  and  drawn 
a  circle  around  freedom  of  thought.  He  would  discuss  the  New  York  In- 
dependent's accusation  that  Charleston  was  the  most  illiterate  city  in  the 
United  States,  with  the  lowest  school  attendance,  the  highest  percentage 
-of  infant  mortality,  the  highest  death  rate,  the  lowest  wage  scale.  These 
were  the  figures.  They  did  not  tell  of  the  yellow  fever  that  periodically 
ravaged  Charleston.  They  did  not  contrast  the  New  York  public  school 
with  the  Southern  tutor,  or  give  the  huge  predominance  of  Southern  over 
Northern  men  in  the  American  universities  and  colleges.  The  South  was 
not  aiming  to  teach  the  masses,  but  to  train  leaders— for  the  South  and 
for  the  nation.33 

For  a  man  so  burdened,  Calhoun  gave  generously  of  his  time.  He  had 
the  gift  of  leisureliness,  of  making  you  feel  that  his  hours  were  no  more 
important  than  yours.  What  made  Fort  Hill  hospitality  so  pleasant  was 
the  ease  with  which  guests  were  fitted  into  the  family  circle.  The  work  of 
a  plantation  could  not  be  halted,  so  visitors  joined  the  Calhouns  in  their 
routine,  accompanying  their  host  on  long  horseback  rides  over  the  quartz- 
strewn  roads  or  'the  ladies'  to  church  services  in  Pendleton.  They  would 
listen  to  the  talk,  so  different  from  that  in  the  North,  a  foreign  visitor 
thought,  'liberal  and  instructive,'  with  no  thought  of  gain.  'I  would  not  be 
rich  in  America,'  Calhoun  declared  with  vehemence,  'for  the  care  of  my 
money  would  distract  my  mind  from  more  important  concerns.'  His  newly 
discovered  gold  mine  at  Dahlonega,  Georgia,  which  so  excited  his  friends, 
only  mildly  interested  him.  'I  know/  he  said,  'that  there  is  nothing  so  un- 
certain as  gold.' s* 

Guests  came  to  see — and  remained  to  admire.  'The  most  perfect  gentle- 
man I  ever  knew,'  was  Featherstonhaugh's  estimate  of  his  host.  So  gra- 
cious were  Calhoun's  manners  that,  almost  angrily,  William  Smith,  a 
violent  political  opponent,  complained  that  Calhoun  had  treated  him 
with  such  kindness,  consideration,  and  courtesy  that  'I  could  not  hate  him 
as  much  as  I  wanted  to  do.' Bs 

And  yet  there  was  a  lack,  a  paradox  in  his  nature.  It  was  young 
Featherstonhaugh,  who,  meeting  him  only  once,  saw  what  those  closest 
to  him  could  not  see.  He  had,  declared  the  Englishman,  'an  imperfect 
acquaintance  with  human  nature.'  He  was  'baffled  by  those  inferior  to 
himself. 'se 

The  tragedy  of  Calhoun  is  in  these  two  sentences.  Had  he  seen  less 
clearly,  he  would  have  understood  far  more.  How  could  a  man  who  could 
'grasp  the  most  intricate  questions  without  difficulty,'  be  expected  to  un- 
derstand the  halting  and  often  baffled  mental  processes  of  the  average  man 
in  the  street?  Penetrating  to  essentials  with  an  almost  intuitive  rapidity, 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  understand  that  what  was  so  clear  to  him 


394  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

was  blurred  to  others.  Add  to  this  a  Calvinistic  conscience  and  a  schooling 
in  the  dirt  and  bitterness  of  partisan  politics,  and  small  wonder  that  the 
tragic  defect  of  his  personality  was  that  he  suspected  the  moral  motives 
of  men  who  differed  from  him.  That  they  could  be  honestly  mistaken 
never  occurred  to  him.  Tortured  with  forebodings  over  the  logical  out- 
come of  the  abolitionist  agitation,  for  example,  he  could  not  understand 
why  others  did  not  see.  Had  he  been  less  brilliant  as  a  man,  he  might 
have  been  more  useful  as  a  statesman. 

Politically  he  controlled  more  through  an  intellectual  mastery  of  the 
leaders  than  by  conquering  the  understanding  of  the  masses.  He  could 
win  men,  fascinate  them,  draw  them  to  him,  but  in  the  final  analysis  he 
did  not  understand  them.  It  was  only  his  natural  sympathy  and  con- 
sideration that  gave  the  illusion  of  his  doing  so.  He  held  his  tremendous 
personal  following  among  the  Southern  people  through  an  emotional 
rather  than  an  intellectual  comprehension.87 


8 

Few  of  his  friends  could  meet  him  on  his  own  ground.  Given  a  visitor  who 
fired  his  intellect,  like  keen-witted  Benjamin  Perry,  Calhoun  would  sweep 
his  work  aside,  and  from  ten  in  the  morning  until  dinner  at  night  would 
never  leave  his  chair  and  never  stop  talking.  'He  was  in  high  spirits/ 
Perry  wrote  of  one  of  their  interviews,  'and  his  conversation  was  truly 
fascinating.  ...  It  was  natural  .  .  .  and  cheerful,  amusing  and  instruc- 
tive, giving  and  taking,  calling  in  the  whole  of  his  life's  experience, 
thought,  and  learning.  He  ...  described  his  contemporaries,  told  anec- 
dotes of  Randolph,  Lowndes,  Jackson,  Polk,  Benton,  and  others.'  He 
praised  the  officers  of  the  Army.  He  described  his  course  in  Congress.  'He 
liked  very  much  to  talk  of  himself,  and  he  always  had  the  good  fortune 
to  make  the  subject  captivating  to  his  listeners.' BB 

Perhaps  no  single  facet  of  Calhoun's  nature  so  accounted  for  his  per- 
sonal charm  as  his  conversational  power.  Conversation  was  a  cultivated 
art  in  South  Carolina,  yet  Calhoun,  with  none  of  the  advantages  of  foreign 
travel  or  the  urban  polish  of  Charleston,  was  in  this  the  acknowledged 
leader  of  them  all.  There  has  been  no  man  among  us,'  asserted  one,  'who 
had  more  winning  manners  in  conversation  .  .  .  than  Mr.  Calhoun.' 
The  'indescribable  fascination'  in  his  way  of  talking  was  one  reason  why 
South  Carolina  so  loved  him.  'Could  he  have  .  .  .  conversed  with  every 
individual  in  the  United  States,'  declared  the  enthusiastic  Hammond, 
'none  could  have  stood  against  him.'  And  not  only  South  Carolinians  paid 
tribute.  'There  was  a  charm  in  his  conversation  not  often  found,'  said 
Henry  Clay.  'It  was  felt  ...  by  all  ...  who  .  .  .  conversed  with 
him.'89 


THE  MASTER  OF  FORT  HILL  395 

In  the  close  encounters  of  'informal  debate  .  .  .  none  could  withstand 
him.'  He  could  anticipate  arguments  before  they  were  uttered,  shatter 
them,  and  run  them  through.  Nor  did  he  antagonize  his  listeners.  He  won 
by  conceding  every  point  that  he  could,  and  by  giving  so  serious  an  argu- 
ment that  listeners  were  flattered  by  the  implied  compliment  to  their  under- 
standing. If  not  too  swept  away,  Calhoun  might  even  halt  in  the  midst 
of  some  fine-spun  analysis  to  ask  'kindly,  "Do  you  see?" '  But  few  at- 
tempted to  reply.  They  'listened  and  admired.3  *° 

All  topics  seemed  within  his  range:  politics,  history,  art,  philosophy, 
science,  literature,  athletics.  His  sweep  of  interests  is  reminiscent  of 
Jefferson's.  He  could  turn  from  the  discussion  of,  a  popular  novel  (which 
he  had  not  read)  to  the  subject  of  racial  origins  or  the  exploitation  of 
India.  'I  have  never  been  more  convinced  of  Mr.  Calhoun's  genius,'  re- 
marked one  visitor,  'than  while  he  talked  to  us  of  a  flower.'  ^  He  could 
captivate  a  blacksmith  with  his  understanding  of  ironworking  or  horse- 
shoeing; he  could  hold  a  whole  dinner  table  in  amazement  as  he  traced 
the  entire  history  of  fig  culture.  He  would  discuss  any  subject  at  all, 
whether  he  knew  anything  about  it  or  not,  with  results  that  were  some- 
times disturbing  to  an  expert. 

There  was  the  sea  captain,  for  instance,  who  was  explaining  the  direc- 
tion of  trade  winds  across  the  equator.  Calhoun  doubted;  Calhoun  did 
not  agree.  He  broke  in  with  his  own  theories  on  the  direction  of  trade 
winds  across  the  equator,  speaking  with  such  logic  and  eloquence  that 
he  won  the  entire  table  over  to  his  side.  The  equatorial  winds,  however, 
unimpressed  by  Calhoun's  argument,  continued  their  journey  across  the 
equator  in  exactly  the  direction  that  the  less  eloquent  sea  captain  had 
said  that  they  did.  Had  Calhoun's  political  enemies  been  present,  they 
might  have  seen  in  his  little  triumph  proof  of  one  of  his  greatest  weak- 
nesses: the  failure  to  examine  his  premises  with  the  care  and  effort  he 
put  into  his  logical  deductions,  thus  arriving  at  the  'most  startling  con- 
clusions.' ** 

There  were  times,  too,  when  Calhoun's  'somber  outlook'  led  him  into 
'remote  regions  of  the  mind,'  untraversed  and  incomprehensible  to  any 
but  the  most  intellectual  of  listeners.  Occasionally  he  would  overwhelm 
with  his  'too  detailed  knowledge.'  He  would  give  way  to  his  'zeal  as  a 
propagandist,'  become  angular  of  phrase  and  stark  of  thought,  his  ideas 
outrunning  his  language.  Some  found  his  argumentativeness  wearying, 
agreeing  with  Parton  that  his  mind  was  as  arrogant  as  his  manners  were 
courteous.  There  were  listeners  who  had  no  desire  to  listen,  no  wish  to 
sit  at  Calhoun's  feet  and  hear  wisdom  'flow  from  his  lips  in  a  continual 
stream.'  Calhoun  had  his  faults,  both  as  man  and  conversationalist.  He 
was  often  overstrenuous,  but  he  was  never  dull.  And  such  was  the  impact 
of  his  charm  that  an  abolitionist  could  write,  'He  was  by  all  odds  the 
most  fascinating  man  in  private  intercourse  that  I  ever  met.' tt 


396  JOHN   C.    CALHOUN 

Lacking  time  to  be  a  scholar,  Calhoun  was  still  'infinitely  better  read' 
than  was  generally  suspected.  He  read  a  great  deal,  and  what  he  read  he 
absorbed  so  completely  that  to  many  it  seemed  as  though  he  did  not  read 
at  all.  He  seldom  gave  quotations;  his  mind  appeared  to  work  wholly  from 
within,  untouched  by  outside  influences.  'It  was  more  like  a  spring  than 
a  reservoir/  **  one  observer  declared. 

Without  having  read  Goethe,  he  amazed  a  listener  by  duplicating  the 
German  master's  interpretation  of  the  character  of  Hamlet!  Of  novels  he 
knew  nothing.  A  woman  lent  him  one,  and  as  he  flipped  over  the  pages, 
he  remarked  that  it  was  the  first  book  'of  the  kind'  he  had  ever  seen! 
(Whatever  he  and  Charles  Dickens  discussed,  it  was  not  Mr.  Pickwick.)  45 

Often  in  his  reading  he  sought  too  much  for  stray  facts  which  suited 
his  own  preconceived  notions,  while  'the  weightiest  fact  of  contradiction' 
might  be  impatiently  brushed  aside.  His  favorite  books  were,  of  course, 
history,  but  he  liked  any  kind  of  works  on  government,  empires,  travel, 
international  conflicts,  and  'the  improvement  and  decline  of  the  races.' 
But  he  was  far  more  of  a  thinker  than  a  reader,  and  according  to  Jeffer- 
son Davis  'spent  hours  at  a  time  in  solitary  thought.'  * 


He  had  a  deep  interest  in  religion.  More  than  one  historian  has  agreed 
with  the  contemporary  journalist  who  asserted  that,  born  a  century  earlier, 
Calhoun  might  well  have  become  the  'Jonathan  Edwards  of  the  South.' 
He  had  just  the  kind  of  'acute  metaphysical  Scotch  intellect'  to  have 
'revelled  in  theological  subtleties,'  and  revel  in  them  he  did;  although, 
with  his  limited  knowledge  of  science  and  utter  reliance  on  the  powers  of 
reason,  it  is  not  surprising  that  his  early  faith  had  become  seriously  shaken. 
But  whatever  his  doubts  and  broodings,  he  kept  them  to  himself.47 

He  would  never  join  a  church.  Blameless  as  his  life  appeared  to  be, 
'conscientious  scruples'  troubled  him,  and  he  held  back  from  a  convic- 
tion of  his  'personal  unfitness.'  His  pastors,  however,  had  no  doubts  as  to 
his  piety,  and  one  who  discussed  religion  with  him  'was  astonished  to  find 
him  better  informed  than  himself  on  those  very  points  where  he  had  ex- 
pected to  give  him  information.' 48 

His  manner  was  reverent  in  church,  and  friends  thought  him  'much 
disturbed  by  any  inattention  in  others.'  But  he  had  his  lapses.  Charles 
Cotesworth  Pinckney  was  startled  one  Sunday  to  look  up  from  his  sermon 
and  find  Calhoun  with  his  eyes  dosed,  apparently  asleep  or  absorbed  in  his 
own  thoughts.  The  rector  smiled.  'You  are  counting  electoral  votes,'  he 
thought;  'you  have  not  heard  a  word.'  After  the  service  the  pastoral 
coach  stopped  to  pick  up  the  long-legged  statesman  who  was  already  well 
into  his  four-mile  walk  home.  Scarcely  had  Calhoun  sat  down  before  he 


THE  MASTER   OF   FORT   HILL  397 

leaped  full-armed  into  the  rector's  sermon,  discussed  it,  disputed  it,  and 
took  it  apart,  point  by  point. 

He  was  an  intensive  Bible  student.  The  Hebrew  people  fascinated  him: 
their  origin,  their  history,  and  their  race.  He  even  longed  to  study  their 
language  that  he  might  read  the  Old  Testament  'in  the  original,'  and  his 
'abrupt  energy'  led  him  to  making  a  'theoretical  grammar'  of  Hebrew 
nouns  and  verbs.  He  is  said  to  have  believed  the  Biblical  prophecies  and 
to  have  paused  wonderingly  at  the  grim  words:  With  a  great  army  .  .  . 
the  king  of  the  North  shall  come  .  .  .  and  take  the  most  fenced  cities; 
and  the  arms  of  the  south  shall  not  withstand.' 49 


XXIV 

^America  in  Mid-Century 


IT  WAS  nsr  THE  FAI/L  OF  1845  that  John  C.  Calhoun  set  out  to  take  a  look 
at  America.  The  trip  was  long  overdue.  His  inspection  tours  of  the  nation 
he  had  helped  build  were  over.  Not  for  twenty  years,  since  his  days  as 
Secretary  of  War,  had  he  been  north  of  the  Mason-Dixon  line  nor  west 
of  Alabama.  And  hi  those  twenty  years  America  had  reached  maturity. 
In  1825  it  had  been  the  potentialities  of  the  young  Republic  that  had 
challenged  the  imagination.  Now  it  was  the  realization. 

Scattered  over  the  South  and  New  West  by  the  half -century  mark  were 
2,400,000  farmers,  planters,  and  dairymen.  But  their  number  was  topped 
by  the  2,500,000  bankers,  businessmen,  and  industrial  workers,  including 
financiers,  ironmongers,  whalebone-makers,  flax-dressers,  and  'makers  of 
philosophical  instruments.' *  Already  the  industrialists  outvoted  the  farm, 
and  the  destiny  of  America  was  fixed  for  the  next  hundred  years. 

Even  the  statistics  were  charged  with  excitement.  In  1820  there  were 
9,500,000  Americans;  by  1840  the  number  had  almost  doubled,  and  ten 
more  years  would  add  another  5,000,000.2  In  1820  212,000  residents  of 
the  Eastern  states  were  factory  workers;  by  1840  the  number  increased 
by  278,000.  Of  these  over  200,000  were  women,  working  ten  or  twelve 
hours  a  day  at  wages  approximating  $6.50  a  week — the  standard  rate  hi 
the  mills  of  Massachusetts.  Employers'  profits  averaged  forty-three  per 
cent. 

Agricultural  output  still  outstripped  the  industrial.  Farm  crop  values 
for  1850  amounted  to  $1,600,000,000,  but  the  industrial  figures  edged  near 
at  $1,013,336,436.8  The  decade  was  roaring  on  to  a  thundering  climax.  The 
swollen  veins  of  Boston  were  thumping  with  the  warfare  of  diverse  blood 
types,  as  Brahmin  blue  and  Irish  red  met,  clashed,  and  curdled.  The  re- 
sult was  not  destruction  but  invigoration;  and  a  jump  in  population  from 
66,000  to  114,000  within  fifteen  years.  In  New  York,  too,  thanks  to 
foreign  blood  transfusions  and  the  absence  of  birth  control,  the  story  was 
the  same:  a  gain  of  100,000  in  fifteen  years.* 

The  city  loomed  on  the  skyline  of  the  American  consciousness.  In  the 
South  there  was  Galveston,  'bright  and  new/  with  its  tropical  gardens 
and  orange  trees,  its  sandy  streets,  glittering  with  pebbles  and  shells; 


XXIV  AMERICA  IN   MID-CENTURY  399 

Montgomery,  'a  city  of  palaces  and  gardens  .  .  .  built  upon  more  hills 
than  Rome';  and  Memphis,  where  'sable  belles  and  sooty  exquisites' 
flashed  a  *  thousand  rainbows  of  color '  on  Sunday  afternoon  promenade. 
Southern  women  were  expressing  horror  at  'living  too  long  a  time  at  the 
plantations/  because,  like  Calhoun's  own  Floride,  they  pined  for  the 
city  where  they  could  enjoy  'luxury  and  amusement.' 5  Farming  involved 
setting  your  life  in  a  pattern  and  planning  ahead;  farming  demanded 
stability,  but  America  had  swung  into  speed  tempo. 

New  York  was  Mecca  to  the  new  Pilgrims  of  Progress.  'In  every  place/ 
wrote  Captain  Marryat,  'you  will  meet  with  some  one  whom  you  have 
met  walking  on  Broadway.  Americans  are  such  locomotives.'  Railroads 
cobwebbed  the  East;  they  spun  their  way  from  Boston  to  New  York,  from 
Philadelphia  to  Pittsburgh,  from  Washington  to  Baltimore.  For  them  iron 
production  had  leaped  from  an  annual  tonnage  of  165,000  to  347,000 
within  ten  years.8 

America  was  on  the  move.  Lights  from  the  campfires  of  Carolina  'mov- 
ers' flickered  in  the  waters  of  the  Ohio  River;  caravans  of  wagons  were 
moving  into  Illinois,  Indiana,  Missouri — the  women,  the  children,  the 
teams  of  oxen  and  horses,  the  brood  mare  and  her  foal,  and  the  men  with 
the  long  rifles  on  their  shoulders.  New  states  were  thundering  at  the  doors 
of  the  Union;  they  were  shouldering  their  way  into  the  national  councils; 
their  power  could  completely  push  aside  the  pretensions  of  the  old 
Thirteen.  Michigan,  Wisconsin,  Arkansas,  Florida,  Iowa,  Texas.  And 
beckoning  always  onward — the  dream,  the  promise,  the  untapped  mag- 
nitude of  Oregon. 

It  was  the  era  of  oyster  cellars  and  chin  whiskers  and  prim  rows  of 
blue-stocking  girls  in  the  classrooms  at  Oberlin  College.  It  was  the  age 
of  contrasts;  of  sod  huts  on  the  prairie  and  Greek  temples  on  the  bayou; 
of  twelve-year-old  New  England  girls  working  from  dawn  to  dark  in  the 
cotton  mills  and  of  twenty-year-old  New  England  boys  filling  the  class- 
rooms at  Columbia  College  for  the  new  course  in  'Superintendents  of  manu- 
facture.' It  was  the  time  of  expansion  and  the  time  of  invention;  it  was 
a  time  for  greatness  and  an  age  of  pettiness.  'Gentlemen/  proclaimed  the 
keeper  of  the  Mississippi  River  hotel,  before  starting  the  roll-call  of  the 
menu,  'We  are  a  great  people.3  T 

Foreign  visitors  still  came  to  look  and  wonder  at  democracy  in  action. 
As  an  ideal,  they  found  it  even  more  vehemently  asserted  than  in  Jackson's 
time,  but  far  less  of  a  living  reality.  Those  who  had  won  its  profits  had 
been  the  first  to  betray  its  principles.  'Love  of  liberty  and  country  I  found 
infinitely  stronger  among  the  laboring  classes/  declared  a  German  visitor, 
amazed  at  the  'contempt  and  hatred  of  American  institutions'  he  found 
among  the  self-appointed  'upper  classes.'8  Another  German,  Professor 
Frederick  Von  Raumer,  thought  America's  'universal  love  for  the  re- 
publican form  of  government  a  strong  bond  of  union  .  ,  ,  so  that  neither 


400  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

what  is  peculiar  nor  what  is  general  can  exclusively  prevail.'  But  he  was 
disturbed  by  the  lack  of  Haste  for  humanity  ...  in  the  best  society  in 
America.' 9 

Even  more  perceptive  was  the  great  French  student  of  democracy,  de 
Tocqueville.  America  he  saw  as  a  country  not  of  freedom  but  of  fear — 
fear  of  unleashed  democracy,  fear  of  slavery,  fear  of  finance  capitalism. 
In  the  Southern  states,  he  found,  little  was  said.  'But  there  is  something 
more  alarming  in  the  taut  forebodings  of  -the  South  than  in  the  clamorous 
fears  of  the  North.' 10 

Not  even  Calhoun  looked  with  more  concern  on  democracy's  'inade- 
quate securities'  against  'the  tyranny  of  the  majority'  than  did  de  Toc- 
queville on  the  inevitable  subjection  of  'the  provinces  to  the  metropolis,7 
and  the  consequent  rise  of  'a  class  who  without  the  economic  security  of 
land  ownership' u  would  deem  money  the  ultimate  power  in  government. 

The  vicious  circle  was  complete.  Men,  who  but  for  industrial  democracy 
would  still  have  bent  their  backs  to  the  plow  or  over  the  workbench, 
fought  now  to  hold  back  the  very  forces  that  had  swung  them  into  power. 
They  knew  how  precarious  was  their  foothold  on  security;  if  democracy 
could  make  them,  it  could  as  easily  elevate  their  own  mill  hands.  De- 
mocracy was  openly  hated  now,  and  none  feared  and  hated  it  more  than 
those  who  without  its  help  would  have  been  nothing  at  all.  Money  alone 
could  breast  the  tide.  Money  could  pay  the  boat  fares  of  famine-starved 
Irishmen,  who  were  only  too  delighted  with  American  slums  and  fifty 
cents  a  day;  men  and  women  who  should  be  content  to  remain  as  servants 
and  who  could  more  easily  be  denounced  for  their  'ridiculous  notions  of 
liberty  and  equality  .  .  .  and  for  pretending  to  enjoy  the  same  privileges 
as  our  born  citizens/  Money  could  distinguish  the  'herd'  from  the  'aris- 
tocracy.' So  the  men  of  the  cotton  mills  and  the  corporations  grappled  for 
more  money,  money  for  a  family  dynasty,  money  for  social  position  and 
economic  power,  money  to  guarantee  their  exception  to  the  rule  of  shirt- 
sleeves to  shirt-sleeves  in  three  generations.12 

Money  was  the  credo  of  American  existence.  Money  was  the  measuring 
rod  of  a  man's  worth,  the  'only  .  .  .  secure  distinction.'  With  two  thou- 
sand dollars  in  the  bank,  the  wife  of  a  grocer,  turned  India  merchant, 
could  set  up  as  a  lady  'of  the  ton/  give  parties  to  people  she  had  never 
met  and  exclude  her  own  relatives.  But  her  position  was  precarious.  The 
rise  or  fall  of  a  single  stock  on  the  Exchange,  and  a  dozen  families  would 
be  excluded  from  the  pale  of  fashion,  and  a  dozen  more  would  emerge  as 
candidates  for  'imaginary  honors.'  Tired  husbands  could  not  retire. 
Money-making  was  an  end  in  itself.  Men  who  would  scorn  to  cheat  at 
cards  would  swindle  on  the  Exchange.  In  no  country,  reported  the  widely 
traveled  Thomas  L.  Nichols,  had  he  seen  faces  'furrowed  with  harder 
lines  of  care,'  or  'so  little  enjoyment  of  life,'  as  in  America.  Never,  de- 
clared an  Englishman,  had  he  heard  Americans  talk  without  the  word 


XXIV  AMERICA  IN   MID-CENTURY  401 

dollar  invading  the  conversation.13  Why,  asked  a  Bostonian,  waste  the 
time  of  an  intelligent  boy  in  four  years  of  'moonshine'  and  'abstractions' 
at  college  when  he  could  learn  as  much  in  six  months  in  a  counting  house? 
Our  merchants,  he  contended,  are  'the  most  respectable  part  of  the  com- 
munity. .  .  .  The  art  of  making  dollars  .  .  .  has  given  them  a  higher 
standing  in  society  than  they  could  have  acquired  by  all  the  philosophy 
in  the  world/  " 

A  New  Yorker  added  his  testimony:  'In  this  city  there  is  no  higher 
rank  than  that  of  a  rich  man.'  Out  of  the  class-consciousness  and  class- 
strife  of  the  eighteen-thirties,  out  of  the  smoke  and  the  steam,  had  risen 
a  new  American  society  of  which  the  whole  basis  was  financial,  and  in 
which  each  'gentleman  ranked  according  to  the  numerical  index  of  his 
property.' 

Aristocracy  its  shareholders  called  themselves,  and  frantically,  fever- 
ishly, they  worked  to  prove  themselves  aristocracy,  'sneering  at  the  liberal 
institutions  of  their  country,'  dedicating  themselves  to  convincing  Europe 
that  in  America  an  unrecognized  nobility  did  exist  and  that  they  were  it.16 

Upon  these  posturings  and  posings,  with  little  girls  in  school  cutting 
their  own  playmates  as  soon  as  their  fathers  could  dress  them  for  better 
company,  foreign  visitors  looked  with  unconcealed  amusement.  For  the 
'white-gloved  democrat  of  the  South'  with  his  aristocratic  bearing,  they 
could  have  respect;  they  could  even  admire  the  unpretending  mechanics 
of  Boston;  but  for  the  'ungloved  aristocrat'  of  the  North,  to  whom  not  the 
aristocratic  tradition  but  dollars  and  cents  were  of  primary  importance, 
they  had  only  contempt.  An  aristocracy  to  be  tolerable,  foreign  visitors 
reminded  Americans,  must  either  'protect  the  lower  classes'  or  set  them 
an  example  of  courtesy  and  learning.16 

New  York,  in  general,  and  the  women  of  New  York,  in  particular,  as- 
sumed the  leadership  of  the  new  society.  Only  a  few  blocks  from  the  new 
mansions  ran  alleys  knee-deep  in  mud  and  rows  of  'hideous  tenements' 
where  'free'  Negroes  huddled  over  smouldering  charcoal  fires  and  a  smell 
of  'singeing  clothes  or  flesh'  hung  always  in  the  murky  hallways.  But  milady 
of  society  lolled  on  'silk  or  satin  furniture'  in  carpeted  drawing  rooms, 
cluttered  with  'portfolios,  knick-nacs,  bronzes,  busts,  cameos,  alabaster 
vases'  and  illustrated  copies  of  'ladylike  rhymes  bound  in  silk.'  She  rose 
at  nine,  breakfasted  at  ten,  'pottered'  for  three  or  four  hours,  walked  and 
shopped  along  the  four-mile,  brick-paved  stretch  of  Broadway,  dined, 
pottered  again  until  six,  when  she  could  start  on  her  toilette  for  dinner. 
And  what  a  fragile,  feminine,  mincing  little  creature  she  was,  her  feet 
crammed  into  'miniature'  slippers,  her  neck,  face,  and  arms  whitened  with 
'pulverized  starch,'  heaps  of  false  hair  piled  on  top  of  her  head,  and  a 
'pale  rose-colored  bonnet'  teetering  on  top  of  it  all.  Yet  the  'exquisite 
beauty'  of  the  American  women  of  the  eighteen-forties  excited  the  admira- 
tion of  the  most  discriminating  of  foreign  visitors.17 


402  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

But  beauty  was  restricted  to  their  person.  Certainly  it  was  not  in  their 
homes  where  beauty  and  vulgarity  had  become  synonymous  terms.  Nor  was 
it  in  their  conversation,  which  foreign  visitors  thought  wanted  charm, 
grace,  and  polish.  Not  that  the  'young  woman  of  amiable  deportment7 
lacked  priming  for  the  social  world.  'A  little  of  everything'  was  the  edu- 
cational rule:  French,  bookkeeping,  economic  history,  constitutional  law, 
natural  theology,  mental  philosophy,  geometry,  technology,  'arches  and 
angles  and  compliments  .  .  .  magnetism  and  electricity';  music  and  draw- 
ing, penmanship,  and  Virgil,  too,  all  gave  milady  assurance  that  she  need 
'never  be  embarrassed  in  society.'  She  could  play  'The  Storm7  on  the  spinet, 
read  such  'literary  trash5  as  'Stanzas  by  Mrs.  Hemans,'  or  a  'garbled  ex- 
tract' from  Moore's  Life  of  Byron,  but  Chaucer  and  Spenser  were  dismissed 
as  unintelligible;  and  Byron  was  not  fit  to  read.  The  Rape  of  the  Lock? 
The  very  title!  Shakespeare?  'Shakespeare,  madam,  is  obscene,'  lacking  in 
'the  refinement  of  the  age  in  which  we  live.' 18 

Occasionally  the  rococo  fagade  gave  way.  A  young  coxcomb  in  'ex- 
quisite' London-made  dress  would  invite  the  ladies  to  smell  his  hair,  which 
he  could  assure  them  was  scented  with  'real  Parisian  perfume.'  A  society 
girl  would  taunt  a  pretty  rival,  sneering  at  her  dress  as  'not  worth  seventy- 
five  cents  a  yard,'  and  at  the  'unlicked  cub'  with  her.  Good  manners  in 
other  countries,  observed  a  European,  consist  in  putting  everyone  at  ease, 
'which  could  be  done  without  undue  familiarity,'  but  here  those  who  were 
rich  'seem  determined  upon  making  everyone  that  is  poorer  than  them- 
selves feel  his  inferiority.'19 


Tremendous  was  the  impact  of  this  new-rich  middle  class  upon  the  na- 
tional economy.  America  was  paying  heavily  for  her  substitution  of  wealth 
and  'progress'  for  freedom  and  self-realization.  'Eminently  selfish,'  de- 
clared Charles  Lyell,  was  the  policy  of  states  like  Massachusetts,  where 
manufacturers  persistently  demanded  a  protective  tariff,  indifferent  to  its 
effect  upon  world  trade,  or  'other  parts  of  the  Union.'  *  Three  or  four 
heavily  populated  states,  Lyell  observed,  could  enforce  their  protective 
program  at  the  expense  'of  a  dozen  less  populated  agricultural  states,  whose 
interests  are  in  favor  of  free  trade.' 20 

Yet  in  this  same  Massachusetts  and  all  over  New  England,  small  farms 
were  crude,  unkempt,  'crippled  with  debt  and  mortgages.'  New  England 
farmers,  lured  by  the  abolitionist  outcry,  went  on  blindly  voting  for  the 
Whigs  and  high  tariffs.  They  paid  no  heed  to  Jackson's  and  Calhoun's 

.  *  This  observation  was  made  more  than  a  hundred  years  before  Massachusetts' 
Governor  Paul  A.  Dever  visited  President  Harry  S.  Truman  in  1949  to  request  a 
higher  protective  tariff  for  the  Massachusetts  woolen  industry! 


XXIV  AMERICA  IN   MID-CENTURY  403 

warnings  that  'the  small  fanners,  mechanics,  and  laborers,  were  the  real 
possessors  of  the  national  wealth,'  nor  to  their  call  to  unite  with  the  city 
laborers  and  the  Southern  farmers  against  the  capitalists  and  corpora- 
tions who  'could  make  their  own  class  interests  prevail  against  division.' a 

It  was  not  majority  rule  in  America  now.  It  was  money  rule.  Few 
wealthy  men  actively  embroiled  themselves  in  the  maelstrom  of  political 
strife;  for  knowingly  the  'mudsills'  could  never  have  been  prevailed  upon 
to  vote  for  them.  But  there  were  men  of  popular  appeal  like  Daniel  Web- 
ster, honestly  convinced  that  the  industrial  way  was  the  American  way. 
There  were  men  eager  for  office  who  would  pay  in  services  for  a  nomina- 
tion, and  there  were  others  poor  enough  to  sell  their  vote  for  a  day's 
food.  And  if  a  popular  leader  of  generous  aims  should  slip  into  power, 
would  not  money  persuade  him  where  his  political  sympathies  should  lie? 
A  gentleman  could  cut  no  figure  in  Washington  merely  upon  his  Congres- 
sional salary. 

Meanwhile,  the  new  potential  of  America,  the  teeming  workers  of  the 
East,  surrendered  to  a  new  type  in  American  politics.  The  'boss'  had  the 
food,  the  basic  human  necessities  that  industrial  'progress'  had  failed  to 
supply.  Men  of  coarse  wit  and  rowdy  eloquence,  like  hard-bitten  Mike 
Walsh,  found  followers  willing  to  vote  as  they  directed  and  as  often  as 
they  required.  Embittered  by  the  betrayal  of  men  who  but  a  few  years 
before  were  'their  own  kind,'  the  working  masses  looked  with  under- 
standable suspicion  on  that  sprinkling  of  men,  brilliant,  learned,  and  gen- 
erous, who  might  still  have  been  willing  to  serve  them.  Thus  was  one  more 
obstacle  thrust  in  the  way  of  Calhoun's  fight  to  carry  on  what  Jackson 
had  begun,  to  fit  Jefferson's  ideals  to  the  economic  realities,  to  unite 
divergent  groups  against  the  common  enemy. 

Not  first  in  1865,  but  as  early  as  1845,  bribery,  vote-purchase,  and  cor- 
ruption were  rules  of  American  politics.  'The  best  character  that  can  be 
given  any  candidate  is  that  he  is  so  rich  that  he  does  not  need  to  steal/ 
asserted  the  New  York  Tribune.  'Theft  has  become  the  peculiar  vice  of 
our  public  men.'  Hundreds  of  thousands  were  pilfered  by  state  officials  in 
Ohio.  In  Maine  a  pastor  was  appointed  State  Treasurer,  and  coolly  helped 
himself  to  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  plus  his  salary.  The  New  York 
Herald,  in  disgust,  issued  warning  that  the  'foul  disgrace  to  our  free  in- 
stitutions' would  be  'a  cause  against  democracy  throughout  the  civilized 
world.'22 

Washington  was  a  'sink  of  corruption.'  Wistfully  Dr.  Nichols  looked  back 
to  the  day  when  'the  Senate  of  the  United  States  was  considered  as  high 
above  .  .  .  suspicion'  as  the  British  Parliament.  Men  of  conscience  like 
Calhoun  were  sickened  by  the  dishonesty  about  them.  Yet  continuously 
he  pled  with  his  followers  to  continue  their  public  service,  'No  one  of  your 
talents  .  .  .  ought  to  think  of  retiring,'  he  wrote  Hammond.  'If  the  ... 
worthy  retire,  the  ...  worthless  will  take  their  place.  Our  destiny,  and 


404  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

that  of  our  posterity  is  involved  in  our  political  institutions  and  the  con- 
duct of  the  Government.'  The  duty  of  the  'enlightened  and  patriotick'  was 
to  'devote  their  time  and  talents  to  the  country.' 23 

Few  had  stomach  to  follow  his  lead.  Day  by  day  Jefferson's  'natural 
aristocracy/  the  professional,  literary,  and  scientific  men,  were  withdraw- 
ing themselves  from  contamination.  Others  of  talent,  who  a  generation 
earlier  would  have  found  self-realization  in  politics,  now,  recognizing  that 
money  was  the  badge  of  esteem,  set  themselves  to  the  business  of  amass- 
ing it. 

Darkly  true  had  been  Calhoun's  prophecy  of  a  decade  before  when  he 
had  told  the  Senate  that  the  law  of  supply  and  demand  governs  the  moral 
as  well  as  the  economic  world.  'If  a  community  demands  high  mental  at- 
tainments, and  allots  honors  and  rewards  that  require  their  development, 
creating  a  demand  for  ...  justice,  knowledge,  patriotism,  they  will  be 
produced.5  Instead,  America  was  allotting  her  public  honors  to  those  un- 
favorable to  the  development  cof  the  higher  .  .  .  qualities,  intellectual  and 
moral.'  How  could  the  'rising  generation'  fail  to  feel  this  'deadening  in- 
fluence. .  .  .  The  youths  who  crowd  our  colleges  and  behold  the  road 
to  ...  distinction  terminating  in  a  banking  house,  will  feel  the  spirit 
.  .  .  decay  within  them.'  Who  would  have  ambition  'to  mount  the 
rugged  steep  of  science  as  the  road  to  honor  and  distinction'  when  the 
highest  point  they  could  attain  would  be  'attorney  to  a  bank'?  * 

Not  even  the  South  had  escaped  infection.  Big  business  compelled  big 
agriculture;  year  by  year  the  demands  of  cotton  mills  in  Old  and  New 
England  were  fixing  slavery  more  and  more  irrevocably  upon  the  South- 
ern states;  and  the  dark  tide  was  creeping  on,  over  the  rich  bottom  lands 
of  Alabama  and  Mississippi,  across  Louisiana  and  Arkansas,  to  the  bor- 
derlands of  Texas.  Slavery  was  becoming  more  cruel,  more  ruthless.  Just 
as  the  corporation  had  brought  a  mechanical  impersonality  into  the  old 
relation  of  employer  and  workman,  so  were  the  absentee  landlords  freed 
from  personal  responsibility  for  their  Negroes'  welfare.  Levee  plantations 
were  too  hot  and  too  unhealthful  for  a  white  man's  residence  for  more  than 
a  few  months  in  the  year.  Laws  for  the  Negroes'  welfare  still  remained  on 
the  books,  but  who  would  hear  the  slave's  cry  for  help  or  uncover  the 
secret  horrors  hidden  in  the  murky  swamps?  25  Profit  was  of  primary  im- 
portance in  this  new-rich  segment  of  Southern  society.  What  chance  for 
personal  knowledge  of  the  Negro  had  these  hard  men  of  the  Mississippi 
frontier  or  the  Northern  businessman  turned  Cotton  planter?  It  was  these 
'cotton  snobs,'  as  the  older  and  more  conservative  Southerners  called 
them,  who  confused  money  with  character,  power  with  responsibility.  It 
was  they  who  built  the  rococo  temples  with  the  forty-foot  fagades;  who 
sported  velvet-lined  coaches,  driven  by  coachmen  with  rich  livery  and 
bare  feet;  who  whipped  their  Negroes  and  damned  the  abolitionists;  who 


XXIV  AMERICA  IN   MID-CENTURY  405 

prated  of  the  purity  of  white  Southern  womanhood  and  debauched  black 
Southern  womanhood.  These  were  the  men  whose  fifteen-year-old  sons 
drank,  smoked,  gambled,  and  whored  with  a  perfection  that  made  Europeans 
compare  them  to  men  of  twenty-five  in  their  own  countries.26  These  were 
the  men  who  would  gamble  away  their  plantations  in  a  single  night,  whose 
security  was  so  hair-trigger  they  would  duel  at  the  quirk  of  an  eyebrow 
or  the  flicker  of  a  smile;  the  men  who  made  Southern  pride  and  Southern r 
arrogance  interchangeable  terms. 

To  foreign  visitors  the  true  spirit  of  aristocracy  was  in  the  integrity 
of  the  small  planters  and  the  farmers  of  the  yeoman  class  from  which 
Calhoun  himself  had  sprung.  But  if  the  'cotton  snobs'  mistook  the  outer 
trappings  for  the  essence  of  the  aristocratic  tradition,  if  their  talk  at  table 
was  more  of  horses  and  hounds  than  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  their 
avowed  aims  were  in  keeping  with  the  planter  tradition.  'In  a  few  years/ 
was  their  optimistic  prediction,  'we  shall  be  the  richest  people  beneath 
the  bend  of  the  rainbow,  and  then  the  arts  and  sciences  will  flourish  to  an 
extent  unknown  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.' 27 

Only  an  American  could  have  trumpeted  this  extravaganza,  but  its  aim 
was  uncompromisingly  Southern.  If  the  new  Southerner  had  succumbed 
to  the  money-mania  as  much  as  his  Yankee  cousins,  at  least  he  had  some 
idea  for  his  money's  disposal.  And  in  this  sentiment  alone  is  proof  of  the 
wedge  that  was  slowly  but  relentlessly  driving  North  and  South  apart. 
Southern  ends  were  more  excessively  Southern  than  ever  before.  Sensitive, 
self-conscious,  watchfully  on  the  defensive,  the  South  was  withdrawing  into 
herself.  If,  on  the  one  hand,  she  was  racing  to  build  her  railroads  and  even 
an  occasional  cotton  mill;  on  the  other,  she  was  accentuating  her  local 
culture,  her  agrarian  tradition,  all  that  cut  her  off,  not  only  from  the 
North,  but  from  the  whole  main  stream  of  world  'progress.'  If  Southern 
values  were  to  survive  at  all,  Southern  leaders  argued,  they  could  not  be 
compromised.  And  year  by  year  the  gulf  between  the  two  sections  was 
widening,  dividing  the  South  from  the  North  so  radically  'as  to  render 
it  culturally  and  economically  a  separate  nation.'  ** 

In  the  flood  of  this  tide  stood  Calhoun.  What  he  sought  was  not  South- 
ern cultural  predominance  over  the  rest  of  the  nation,  but  Southern  survival 
in  a  Republic  loosely  enough  united  for  the  'peculiar  institutions'  of  each 
section  to  survive  without  the  feeling  of  personal  responsibility  on  the  part 
of  the  inhabitants  of  the  other  sections.  But  to  intensify  Southern  culture, 
on  the  one  hand,  and  to  weave  it  into  the  fabric  of  a  national  pattern  that 
became  more  divergent  every  passing  day,  was  beyond  the  powers  of  any 
man.  Said  a  Southerner:  'The  Southern  people  .  .  .  rather  than  let  this 
Union  be  dissolved  .  .  .  will  drive  into  Canada  every  .  .  .  abolitionist, 
every  disunionist.'  Said  a  Northerner:  'South  Carolina  approves  of  allow- 
ing a  man  to  flog  his  servant  *  .  .  Massachusetts  does  not.  South  Caro- 


406  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

lina  approves  of  selling  pretty  girls  at  auction  .  .  .  Massachusetts  does 
not.  .  .  .'  **  Between  such  gulfs  of  opinion  was  any  common  ground  pos- 
sible? 

The  tragedy  was  that  North  and  South  did  not  know  each  other,  and, 
heated  as  each  side  was  by  prejudice,  had  less  and  less  desire  to  know 
each  other.  Few  Northerners  could  travel  in  the  Southern  states.  Their 
opinions  were  formed  by  the  press  and  the  church  which  condemned 
slavery  in  particular  and  Southerners  in  general,  without  stopping  to  realize 
that  two-thirds  of  the  white  Southerners  actually  owned  no  slaves  at  all. 

The  contempt  was  even  more  eloquent  South  than  North.  No  better 
barometer  of  public  opinion  can  be  found  than  in  the  Fourth  of  July 
toasts  of  a  single  year  and  a  single  state,  South  Carolina  in  1845.  'South 
Carolina.  Star  of  the  first  magnitude  .  .  .  revolving  on  her  own  axis, 
shining  with  no  borrowed  light,  her  creed,  let  us  alone.'  'Northern  abolition- 
ists ...  unfit  to  be  citizens  of  our  great  Republic/  '  Grain  crops  and 
manufactories  ...  the  present  policy  of  South  Carolina/  'The  abolition- 
ists. Negro  sons  and  daughters-in-law  to  the  whole  of  them.' 

And  this:  'May  the  Southern  States  soon  have  a  President  of  their  own 
and  that  President  be  John  C.  Calhoun.' 80 

Calhoun  was  keenly  sensitive  to  the  pressure  of  the  new  times.  Although 
outwardly  he  had  himself  changed  his  course,  he  was  the  first  to  recognize 
the  changes  in  the  course  of  the  country.  As  early  as  1837  he  had  been 
aware  that  'the  lower  classes  had  made  great  progress  to  equality  and  inde- 
pendence. Such  change  .  .  .  indicates  great  approaching  change  in  the 
political  and  social  condition  of  the  country  ...  the  termination  of  which 
is  difficult  to  be  seen.  Modern  society  seems  to  me  to  be  rushing  to  some 
new  and  untried  condition.  .  .  .' 81 

He  knew  that  an  era  was  ending.  He  had  lived  to  see  the  evolution  of 
his  country  from  Jefferson's  dream  of  a  classless  pastoral  republic  to  the 
reality  of  a  class-ridden  industrial  democracy.  He  had  seen  the  birth  of 
modern  American  society. 

Traditional  history  would  mark  the  Civil  War  as  the  dividing  line 
between  the  old  and  the  new  America.  But  the  facts  and  figures  speak 
otherwise.  The  war  was  not  the  battle  between  the  Southern  and  the 
Northern  concepts  of  America.  The  war  did  not  decide  whether  the  in- 
dustrial or  the  agrarian  ideal  would  prevail  for  the  nation.  Time  and  the 
world  had  decided.  The  America  of  the  North  had  won.  The  South  would 
fight,  not  for  dominance  but  for  survival.  And  all  the  characteristics  of 
so-called  'modern'  America:  the  standardization  of  society,  the  increasing 
corruption  of  politics,  the  rising  ascendancy  of  the  laborer  over  the  farmer 
as  the  common  denominator  American,  the  triumph  of  unrestrained  ma- 
jority rule — all  that  would  be  written  down  as  the  result  of  the  Civil  War 
was  not  so  much  the  result  as  the  cause.  Not  Abraham  Lincoln  but 


XXIV  AMERICA  IN   MID-CENTURY  407 

Andrew  Jackson  was  the  father  of  modern  America.  The  Civil  War  was 
merely  the  legitimization  of  the  birth. 


Upon  this  new,  industrialized,  fast-moving  America,  Calhoun  looked  with 
mixed  feelings  of  horror  and  admiration.  He  was  no  dreaming  traditionalist, 
bent  on  mewing  up  his  country  in  a  pastoral  oasis  of  farms  and  plantations, 
linked  by  half-blazed  forest  trails.  He  had  approved  the  new  cotton  mills. 
He  could  not  see  a  map  but  that  his  eyes  and  brain  visualized  canals,  high- 
ways, railroads,  drawing  the  diverse  sections  into  one.  Industrial  progress 
meant  as  much  to  him  as  to  any  man;  what  troubled  him  were  the  fortunes 
being  amassed  by  the  few  and  the  change  in  American  purposes  and  think- 
ing that  the  fortunes  had  brought  Would  industrial  progress — this  was 
the  question  that  nagged  at  his  brain — would  industrial  progress  mean 
better  living  for  the  many  or  enrichment  of  the  few?  He  foresaw  the  worst. 
Unchecked,  unrestrained  industrialism  would  destroy  the  Union  and  wreck 
the  South. 

But  in  the  West  there  was  hope.  Its  vast  breadths,  its  unmeasured 
potentialities  for  an  agrarian  economy,  linked  in  values  to  the  older  South, 
linked  even  closer  by  rail  line  and  steamboat,  was  a  prospect  to  stir  the 
imagination.  The  North  might  dream  of  making  agriculture  subservient  to 
the  demands  of  an  Eastern  industrial  empire;  Calhoun's  counter-check 
was  to  use  the  new  industrialism  as  a  means  of  enriching  and  improving 
the  united  agrarian  economy  of  the  South  and  West.  Realist  to  the  bone, 
he  knew  that  the  South's  only  chance  of  survival  was  to  invoke  the  means 
of  its  rivals.  He  must  defeat  majority  rule  by  majority  rule.  If,  practically 
speaking,  the  Union  was  to  be  operated  for  the  promotion  of  group  in- 
terests, then  his  group  interests  must  receive  their  share. 

Indeed,  the  Civil  War  itself  has  frequently  been  described  as  a  struggle 
between  the  North  and  South  for  the  dominance  of  the  new  West.  No 
Southern  leader  would,  of  course,  acknowledge  that  the  Old  South  was 
finished;  that  the  tobacco-cotton  economy  had  so  depleted  the  soil  of 
Virginia,  Georgia,  and  the  Carolinas  that  the  only  hope  of  continued  pros- 
perity was  in  surrender  of  the  West  to  slavery.  Boxed  up,  the  South  was 
ended  economically  as  well  as  outvoted  politically.  Yet  subconsciously 
this  realization  was  a  driving  impetus  behind  the  expansionist  movement, 
plus  the  realization  that  as  the  public  opinion  of  the  North  united  against 
the  South,  the  Southern  states  must  maintain — state  by  state — a  numerical 
equality  with  the  North,  a  necessity  which  Calhoun  realized  perfectly. 

Yet,  blind  as  the  Carolinian  was  on  the  economics  of  the  slave  question, 
on  the  facts  of  human  nature  he  was  far  wiser  than  his  fellows.  Texas  had 


408  JOHN    C.    CALHOUN 

taught  him  a  lesson.  Regardless  of  Southern  needs,  Northern  opinion,  he 
knew,  would  limit  the  spread  of  avowedly  slave  territory.  Hence,  his  effort 
to  restate  the  expansionist  question  in  agrarian  rather  than  slavery  terms; 
and  to  find  a  common  economic  ground  by  which  the  agricultural  states 
of  the  South  and  West  could  stand  politically  united.  But  as  fast  as  the 
South  demanded  new  allies  for  her  system,  so  would  the  North  demand 
allies  for  hers — and  the  irrepressible  conflict  loomed  nearer. 


Calhoun's  interest  in  the  West  went  back  to  1835  when  he  had  written 
a  Georgia  Congressman  that  'a  judicious  system  of  railroads  would  make 
Georgia  and  Carolina  the  Commercial  centre  of  the  Union.'  By  'proper 
exertions/  he  had  pointed  out  in  a  subsequent  letter,  'the  two  States  could 
turn  half  of  the  commerce  of  the  Union  through  their  limits.'  With  'one 
great  road  of  uniform  construction/  an  'immense  intercourse'  would  take 
place  between  the  West  'and  Southern  Atlantick  ports.'  And  at  the  outlet 
would  stand  not  New  York,  but  Charleston.  'The  advantages  of  New 
York  are  not  to  be  compared  with  it.' M 

Thus,  in  a  few  enthusiastic  sentences  had  Calhoun  given  birth  to  the 
program  to  which  he  would  devote  the  energies  of  his  middle  years.  Funda- 
mentally his  aim  was  unchanged — to  preserve  the  integrity  of  the  South 
within  the  Union.  But  his  means  were  changing.  Already  he  saw  that  if 
the  Southern  life  was  to  be  preserved,  some  surrender  to  the  spirit  of  the 
age  must  be  made.  If  money  was  the  means  of  power,  then  the  South  must 
share  in  the  'mighty  flood  of  prosperity'  that  the  age  of  railroads  would 
bring.  Linked  together  in  distance  and  commerce,  the  West  and  the  South 
could  withstand  the  encroachments  of  industrial  power. 

How  could  this  great  aim  be  accomplished?  Already  a  route  was  clear  in 
Calhoun's  mind:  the  little  railroad  at  Athens,  Georgia,  extended  to  the 
Tennessee  River,  where  the  paddleboats  lashed  the  tawny  water  into  foam; 
then  on  to  Nashville  and  the  steamboats  down  the  Cumberland;  across 
the  Ohio  and  to  St.  Louis  where  the  Mississippi  and  the  Missouri  met. 
From  this  main  line  must  run  several  branches:  one  south  to  the  Chatta- 
hoochee  near  Columbus,  Georgia,  'to  meet  the  projected  railroads  from 
Montgomery  and  Pensacola';  another  down  the  Tennessee  to  join  the 
Decatur  Railroad,  around  the  Muscle  Shoals  and  thence  by  the  'projected' 
railroad  to  Memphis;  'another  between  the  Tennessee  and  Nashville  to 
Cincinnati,'  and  finally  one  'from  ...  the  Ohio  to  Lake  Michigan.'  'Pro- 
jected,' imaginary,  but  still  'the  most  important  and  magnificent  work  in 
the  world.' 8a 

Georgia  thought  otherwise.  Georgia  financiers  had  evinced  no  interest  in 
extending  their  railroads  for  the  benefit  of  Charleston.  Hence,  the  question 


XXIV  AMERICA  IN  MID-CENTURY  409 

was,  Where  should  the  route  start — along  the  valley  of  the  French  Broad 
River,  through  North  Carolina,  as  suggested  by  Robert  Young  Hayne,  or 
by  the  little-known  'Carolina  Gap/  along  the  old  Cherokee  Path  in  a  bee- 
line  from  Charleston  to  Nashville  and  on  to  St.  Louis,  as  urged  by  Cal- 
houn? 

That  Hayne's  route — serving,  as  it  did,  the  entire  Carolina  up-country 
— was  more  advantageous  to  his  own  state,  a  single  glance  at  the  map  will 
reveal.  But  Calhoun,  bent  on  his  grand  design  of  'uniting  .  .  .  two  sec- 
tions,' was  thinking  beyond  the  borders  of  Carolina.  It  was  to  the  Far 
West  that  the  South  must  look,  not  to  Cincinnati  or  Lexington,  whose 
natural  trade  outlets  were  not  South  Carolina,  but  Maryland  and  Virginia. 
Basically  both  Hayne  and  Calhoun  sought  the  same  end — intersectional 
unity  through  trade;  but  where  Hayne  indulged  in  roseate  dreams  that 
rail  lines  between  Kentucky  and  Ohio  would  make  for  social  ties  and 
affection  between  the  sections  that  might  even  allay  the  Northern  repug- 
nance to  slavery,  Calhoun's  plan  dealt  far  more  with  practical  economics. 
Actually  his  railroad  scheme  was  only  a  part  of  his  long-range  program 
for  a  balanced  and  broadening  Union,  voiced  first  in  his  days  as  a  Con- 
gressman and  as  Secretary  of  War,  and  to  be  climaxed  with  his  Memphis 
Memorial  of  1846. 

Politically,  of  course,  Calhoun's  plan  was  inadvisable,  because  from  a 
superficial  standpoint  it  slighted  his  own  state.  But  he  was  no  man  to  be 
deterred  by  such  considerations.  Back  in  1836  he  had  determined  that  the 
Carolina  Gap  was  the  direct  highway  to  the  West,  far  superior  to  Hayne's 
alternative  French  Broad  route.  Well,  he  had  decided,  he  would  see  for 
himself.  Only  if  he  proved  to  himself  that  he  was  right,  could  he  demon- 
strate the  truth  to  others.  Maps  were  not  enough.  He  would  walk  the  first 
stage  of  his  route,  across  the  mountains  from  Fort  Hill  to  the  mouth  of  the 
North  Carolina  river,  Tuskaseegee. 

To  another  man  the  scheme  might  have  seemed  fantastic.  To  the  'active, 
energetic'  Calhoun  nothing  was  impossible  that  he  had  set  his  mind  upon. 
And  in  mid-September,  1836,  accompanied  by  his  friends  Colonel  James 
Gadsden  and  William  Sloan,  he  had  started  for  the  mountains. 

To  Calhoun  the  experience  had  been  exhilarating.  Now  he  could  give 
full  play  to  his  long  unfulfilled  desire  to  be  an  engineer.  His  mathematical 
eye  and  brain  gauged  the  elevation  of  the  bluffs  and  ridges,  and  by  the 
time  his  survey  was  over,  the  whole  great  'rout'  was  spread  out  like  a  map 
in  his  mind:  the  'decents'  and  crossings,  the  unbuilt  rail  lines,  and  the 
navigation  on  the  Western  Waters.' 

Up  there,  in  that  vast  world  of  towering  peaks  and  smoky  ranges, 
Washington,  seemed  very  far  away.  Here  was  the  pure,  ice-needled  water, 
the  keen  air,  the  pungent  scent  of  pine  needles  warm  in  the  noontime  sun. 
All  his  senses  were  alert,  for  even  as  his  eye  marked  the  slope  and  elevation 


410  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 

of  the  prospective  gradings,  he  would  be  aware  of  the  footprints  of  a  wolf 
on  the  banks  of  a  stream  and  of  the  rustling  in  the  brush. 

Down  below,  temperatures  still  hung  at  the  ninety  mark.  Here  already 
the  maple  leaves  were  dipped  with  the  sunset,  and  the  leaves  of  beeches 
were  deepening  from  pale  yellow  to  warm  gold.34  Carpets  of  color  were 
strewn  across  the  distant  ranges;  the  translucent  air  steeped  every  leaf  and 
every  blade  of  grass  in  a  richer  hue.  At  dusk  the  haze  darkened  from 
smoke-blue  to  purple;  at  dawn  clouds  clung  to  the  downward  slopes,  swirl- 
ing away  like  smoke,  revealing  range  after  range  as  if  through  a  veil. 

Here  in  the  hills,  time  had  dropped  back  fifty  years.  Here  still  was  the 
half-won  frontier,  the  clay-chinked  cabins  of  the  old  Abbeville  district  of 
Calhoun's  boyhood.  Here  was  a  world  long  known  and  forgotten — of  leaf 
tobacco  drying  on  the  'mantel  and  strings  of  red  peppers  swinging  from 
smoke-stained  rafters.  Here  were  the  quilting  frame  and  the  spinning  wheel, 
the  cedar  water-bucket  and  the  split-bottomed  mountain  chairs,  cut  from 
fine-grained  white  oak.  From  the  table  would  come  the  familiar  sound  of 
sucking  swallows  and  clattering  knives;  from  the  fireplace  the  scent  of 
broiling  venison  and  of  cornpone,  wrapped  in  shucking  and  baked  black 
under  a  layer  of  hot  ashes. 

Calhoun  surrendered  easily  to  the  informal  mountain  hospitality.  He 
could  count  himself  lucky  when  he  shared  a  room  merely  with  his  traveling 
companions,  for  in  some  cabins  sixteen  might  be  bedded  down  in  a  single 
chamber.85  Even  in  the  taverns  a  traveler  was  regarded  as  unreasonably 
fastidious  who  objected  to  bedclothes  which  had  'only  been  used  a  few 
nights/  or  a  sudden  awakening  as  the  landlord  ushered  a  stranger  into  his 
bed.86  So  Calhoun  took  it  with  equanimity  when  aroused  one  midnight  by 
a  peremptory  'Move  furder  thar,  old  horse/  and  found  the  rural  mail 
carrier  climbing  into  bed  with  him. 

In  the  morning,  he  lay  abed  longer  than  was  his  wont,  savoring  the  long- 
lost  memories,  the  September  air,  spiced  with  pine.  From  the  room  beyond 
came  the  sounds  and  smells  of  breakfast,  the  clatter  of  the  bucket,  and  a 
faint  breath  of  wood  smoke,  stealing  through  the  loose-laid  logs  of  the 
partition.  He  was  roused,  at  last,  by  his  hostess.  Without  ceremony  she 
thumped  over  to  the  bed,  told  him  to  get  up,  climb  the  ladder  into  the  loft, 
and  fetch  her  down  a  ham  for  his  breakfast.  And  without  a  demur  the 
Senator  obeyed. 

She  didn't  know  he  was  the  great  John  Calhoun.  He  hadn't  bothered 
to  tell  her.  But  at  the  close  of  the  mountain  visits,  Colonel  Gadsden  grati- 
fied their  hostess's  curiosity.  She  bustled  up  to  Calhoun  and  looked  him 
searchingly  up  and  down. 

Well,'  was  her  disappointed  verdict,  'you  look  just  like  other  folks.' 
Then,  hopefully,  'I  guess  you  have  a  pretty  wife  to  home,  h'ain't  you?' 

Smilingly  Calhoun  replied  that  the  next  time  he  came  to  the  mountains, 
he  would  bring  Mrs.  Calhoun  with  him,  and  she  could  see  for  herself. 


XXIV  AMERICA  IN   MID-CENTURY  411 

'Well,  I  guess  she  has  plenty  of  pretty  bed  coverlets  to  home  now,  h'ain't 
she?' 
At  this,  the  author  of  a  thousand  speeches  was  speechless.37 

At  the  mouth  of  the  'Tuskyseege,'  the  long  trek  ended.  Now  even  Cal- 
houn  realized  how  laborious  the  nine  days  of  incessant  walking  and  search- 
ing had  been.  But  his  enthusiasm  was  aglow.  Results  had  been  'eminently 
favorable,  far  more'  than  even  he  had  anticipated.  He  threw  himself  into 
the  work  of  preparing  a  'statement  of  facts'  for  the  Pendleton  Messenger. 
Meetings  must  be  held  immediately  in  Abbeville,  Edgefield,  and  'Orange- 
burgh.'  The  route,  he  was  convinced,  had  'a  decided  preference  over  all 
other  routes,'  and  nothing  but  suitable  efforts  were  required  to  'ensure  its 
success.' 

He  was  not  unaware  of  the  obstacles  that  confronted  his  dream.  He 
listed  them  as  two:  'the  want  of  concert,  and  the  want  of  funds,'  the  second 
a  disturbing  factor,  indeed,  when  one  considered  how  the  men  with  funds 
might  easily  divert  his  plans  into  their  own  channels.  Of  the  'want  of 
concert,'  he  had  no  fear;  against  it  he  would  pit  his  energy  and  his  per- 
suasiveness. 

For  a  brief  while  it  seemed  as  if  in  his  long-range  aims  he  might  suc- 
ceed. His  Carolina  Gap  route  could  obtain  no  general  support,  but  agree- 
ment with  Georgia  seemed  in  the  offing,  and  in  Columbia  leading  railroad 
financiers  expressed  enthusiasm  over  the  very  route  through  Georgia  to  the 
Tennessee  that  he  had  recommended  three  years  before,  at  which  time  he 
had  not  been  able  to  get  a  single  man  in  the  state  to  agree.88  Calhoun  was, 
of  course,  nominally  a  director  of  the  embryonic  Louisville,  Cincinnati, 
and  Charleston  Railroad,  but  a  man  more  temperamentally  unfit  to  enjoy 
such  letterhead  honors  can  hardly  be  imagined.  As  he  told  Duff  Green, 
when  turning  down  the  proffered  chairmanship  of  a  mining  corporation: 
'Of  all  things  ...  I  have  the  least  taste  for  money-making  ...  in  par- 
ticular the  branch  connected  with  stock,  exchange,  or  banking.  .  .  .  You 
must  see  how  illy  qualified  I  am  for  the  task  .  .  .  and  how  exceedingly 
irksome  its  duties  would  be  to  me.  ...  I  would  infinitely  prefer  ...  to 
take  the  place  of  Chief  Engineer  at  the  head  of  the  Mining  Department 
...  to  develop  ...  so  fine  a  deposite  would  at  least  require  so  much 
reflection  and  energy  as  to  absorb  the  attention.' 89 

To  the  'great  object  of  uniting  the  West  and  the  South  Atlantick  ports,' 
he  had  willingly  lent  his  name — until  he  discovered  that  it  was  only  his 
name  that  was  wanted.  South  Carolina  and  Georgia  would  not  be  'one,' 
not  even  for  their  mutual  benefit.  Sensing  this,  Calhoun  had  striven,  as  we 
have  seen,  to  find  some  other  route  'as  far  West  as  possible,  without  touch- 
ing Georgia,'  but  could  not  convince  the  financiers  of  his  own  state.  He 
had  tried  to  see  the  advantages  of  other  routes;  nor  had  he  relied  upon 
his  own  judgment  alone.  But  the  'great  object'  he  could  not  and  would  not 


412  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

relinquish,  and  neither  South  Carolina  nor  Georgia  saw  what  lay  behind 
his  pleas.  While  South  Carolina  struck  out  for  herself  along  the  route  of 
the  French  Broad,  Georgia  adopted  almost  the  entire  route  Calhoun  had 
suggested,  'but  .  .  .  looking  wholly  to  her  own  interests.'  While  South 
Carolina  was  still  debating  ways  and  means,  Georgia's  route  to  the  West 
would  be  completed  at  low  cost,  with  consequent  lower  rates  for  transpor- 
tation; and  with  its  connection  to  the  Tennessee,  its  branches  would  draw 
the  trade  from  Knoxville  and  the  entire  West,  'in  preference  to  ours,  even 
if  it  was  completed.' 40 

Calhoun  had  been  bitterly  disappointed.  The  'mighty  flood  of  prosperity' 
that  he  had  predicted,  would  now  break  over  Georgia  alone.  And  on 
October  28,  1838,  he  had  submitted  his  resignation  to  Robert  Young 
Hayne.  A  note  of  genuine  regret  sounded  through  his  words.  South  Caro- 
lina's French  Broad  route,  he  was  convinced,  would  collapse  in  'complete 
and  disasterous  failure.'  He  would  not  share  in  the  responsibility.  'No  one 
would  rejoice  more  than  myself  to  find  that  you  were  right/  he  told 
Hayne.  'We  are  all  in  the  same  ship,  and  must  share  alike  in  the  good  or 
bad  fortune  of  the  State.'  Charleston,  he  was  still  convinced,  'had  more 
advantages  for  Western  trade  than  any  other  city  on  the  Atlantic.'  South 
Carolina  must  look  to  the  Far  West,  to  the  Tennessee,  not  the  Ohio.  She 
must — but  she  would  not. 

'You  cannot  possibly  feel  more  pain  in  differing  from  me,  than  I  do  in 
differing  from  you,'  he  assured  Hayne.  'Our  differences  shall  never  effect 
our  personal  relations.' 41 

Thus  formally  ended  Calhoun's  connections  with  Southern  railroading, 
but  not  his  interest.  In  1839  he  was  writing  an  Illinois  Circuit  Judge  that 
Charleston  had  far  greater  advantages  for  trade  than  New  York,  and  that 
the  'line  of  communication'  must  be  'through  the  Tennessee  River.'  Could 
not  Illinois  take  the  lead?  'I  have  long  had  the  completion  of  this  great  line 
of  communication  much  at  heart,'  he  confessed;  'and  have  been  surprised, 
when  I  reflect  on  the  vast  .  .  .  portion  of  the  Union  interested,  that  it 
has  attracted  so  little  attention.'  ^ 


Disappointed  though  he  had  been,  his  interest  in  routes  and  rail  lines  and 
all  modes  of  communication  continued  unabated  in  subsequent  years.  Maps 
fascinated  him;  the  pioneering  blood  stirred  in  his  veins;  and  visitors  to 
Fort  Hill  in  the  forties  would  often  find  him  on  the  north  portico  with 
maps  spread  out  before  him  and  he  questing  their  secrets  with  all  the  eager- 
ness  of  youth.  'You  evince  good  judgement,'  he  wrote  Anna  in  Belgium, 
'in  preferring  a  new  and  growing  country  to  an  old  ...  one  .  .  .  there  is 
something  heartsome  ...  in  ...  a  new  country.  Indeed,  so  strongly  do  I 


XXIV  AMERICA  IN   MID-CENTURY  413 

feel  the  charms  of  a  growing  and  improving  country,  that  I  would  be  much 
disposed  to  place  myself  on  the  very  verge  of  the  advancing  population  and 
growth  .  .  .  were  I  to  follow  my  inclination.3  4S 

If  only  he  were  young! 

If  he  were  young,  he  told  a  group  in  the  summer  of  1845,  he  would 
settle  over  there — in  the  North  Georgia  country.  He  swept  a  long  finger 
down  the  map  from  Greenville  and  Seneca  to  the  tiny  speck  marking  the 
southern  end  of  the  rail  line  running  northwestward  from  the  old  Cherokee 
country  on  into  Tennessee.  This  was  the  place,  he  announced — Terminus, 
or  Marthasville,  or  whatever  they  were  calling  it  now.  Give  it  a  few  years 
and  you'd  see  a  railroad  running  from  that  spot  to  the  Ohio  country  and 
on  to  the  Pacific  coast  beyond.  Just  wait,  he  said  in  substance,  and  you'd 
see  Terminus  the  great  railroad  center  of  the  Southeastern  United  States. 
Yes,  that's  where  he  would  go,  if  he  were  young  again  I 

His  friends  listened,  with  deference  but  skepticism.  That  was  like  old 
Calhoun  for  you!  What  gentleman  could  ever  imagine  living  in  that  brawl- 
ing mudhole,  with  its  one  railroad  office,  one  sawmill,  and  two  stores? 
They  were  changing  its  name  again  now — Marthasville  it  had  been  for  the 
last  year  or  two,  and  now  it  was  rechristened  again — what  was  the  name, 
anyway?  Oh,  yes,  Atlanta — Atlanta,  Georgia,  that  was  it. 

Calhoun's  means  permitted  him  little  surplus  travel.  But  in  the  fall 
of  1845  came  the  chance  he  had  dreamed  of.  He  was  chosen  a  delegate 
to  a  'South-Western  convention'  at  Memphis,  called  to  promote  the  unity 
and  development  of  the  economic  resources  of  both  the  South  and  the 
West.  Here,  at  last,  was  a  concrete  step  toward  his  great  goal.  And  it  was 
with  high  enthusiasm  that  he  arrived  at  his  son's  Alabama  plantation  that 
fall  for  a  tour  that  became  little  less  than  a  march  of  triumph. 

Celebrations  were  climaxed  in  New  Orleans.  There  in  the  old  Creole 
city  where  Andrew  Jackson  had  reigned  as  hero,  his  deadliest  enemy  was 
mobbed  by  cheering  crowds  whenever  he  ventured  into  the  streets.  Any- 
one who  waited  a  personal  interview  received  it,  and  visitors  crowded  his 
rooms  merely  to  see  and  hear  him. 

The  excitement  was  exhilarating.  Friends,  aware  of  his  serious  illness 
only  a  few  months  before,  found  him  looking  remarkably  well.  He  reveled 
in  the  beauty  of  the  exotic  old  city;  its  narrow  streets  and  high-walled 
houses,  the  wrought-iron  lacework,  the  old  market  in  the  shadows  of  the 
high  archways.  At  the  harbor  even  his  fears  for  the  decay  of  Charleston 
would  have  dimmed,  for  there,  row  on  row,  hiding  the  brown  water  of  the 
Mississippi,  lay  an  'array  of  steamboats,  gorgeous  river  palaces,  from  in- 
land ports  a  thousand  miles  distant,'  flatboats,  rafts,  loaded  with  hemp, 
wheat,  corn,  pigs,  furs— all  the  treasures  of  the  West  pouring  into  the 
world  market  at  New  Orleans.44  Small  wonder  that  Calhoun's  pulses 
leaped;  his  vision  grew;  he  saw  New  Orleans  as  the  great  American  port 
of  call  for  all  Latin  America,  the  Mississippi  as  the  life-artery  of  the 


414  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 

Union;  and  could  not  and  would  not  believe  that  the  day  of  the  South's 
prosperity  and  greatness  was  at  an  end. 

In  Mobile  he  had  declined  all  public  celebrations,  but  in  New  Orleans, 
at  the  behest  of  the  city  dignitaries,  he  accepted  a  public  dinner,  and  could 
not  resist  writing  Clemson  that  he  was  received  Everywhere  in  a  manner 
sufficient  to  gratify  the  feelings  of  ...  the  most  illustrious.  ...  All 
parties  everywhere  united,  without  distinction,  in  a  demonstration  .  .  . 
not  exceed  [ed]  by  that  shown  to  General  Jackson  in  ...  the  same 

places I  everywhere  was  received  as  the  guest  of  the  place,  and 

passed  without  expense  .  .  .  through  every  town  to  and  from  Memphis.5  45 


Most  popular  of  all  the  modes  of  locomotion'  in  that  year  of  1845  was 
river  travel.  In  theory  this  was  a  means  of  transportation  that  appealed 
to  Calhoun.  Since  1815,  when  he  had  written  Floride  of  the  ease  and 
safety  of  the  steamboat  in  which  you  were  'moved  on  rapidly  without 
being  sensible  of  it/  **  he  had  longed  for  a  line  straight  from  Charleston  to 
Washington. 

River  boats  varied  all  the  way  from  the  crude  'hell  afloat'  steamers  of 
the  West,  where  the  sun  poured  through  the  overhead  and  the  furnace 
burned  through  the  deck,  to  the  river  palaces  of  the  lower  Mississippi, 
broad-beamed  and  flat-bottomed,  complete  with  a  hurricane  deck  for 
lovers,  a  library  of  'histories,  voyages,  biographies,  sermons,  reviews,  and 
the  latest  novels/  a  barber  shop,  and  a  two-hundred-foot  drinking  saloon. 
There  the  traveler  could  find  comfortable  sofas,  marble-topped  tables,  and 
swinging  chandeliers;  the  art  connoisseur  might  note  the  paneled  walls 
with  their  'hand-painted'  scenic  murals.  Less  inviting  were  the  ladies' 
cabins,  where  the  gentler  sex,  if  alone,  sat  in  fixed,  silent  rows  with  their 
reticules  and  little  baskets  in  their  laps,  their  faces  'the  images  of  philo- 
sophic indifference.'  The  rocking  chairs  were  invariably  occupied  by  the 
mothers,  who  rocked,  suckled  their  young,  and  wearily  voiced  unrealized 
threats  of  'I'll  switch  you,'  to  children  'so  wild  and  undisciplined,  as  to  be 
the  torment  of  all  who  approached  them.' 4T 

Had  Calhoun  sought  America  over,  he  could  not  have  found  a  better 
cross-section  of  his  country  than  on  the  deck  of  a  river  steamboat.  All 
were  there:  dissolute  young  planters;  stock  actors  grumbling  at  the  small- 
ness  of  their  wages  and  parts;  firm-lipped  governesses  from  New  England 
traveling  alone  to  some  far-distant  plantation;  card-players  who  would 
rather  collect  their  winnings  than  get  off  at  their  stops;  politicians,  states- 
men, riff-raff,  gentlemen.  And  for  all — all  but  the  unfortunate  'deck  passen- 
gers/ who  slept  like  dogs  on  the  bare  planking  below — equality  was  the 
rule.  Men  of  rank,  of  the  most  gentle  manners  and  superior  education, 


XXIV          AMERICA  IN  MID-CENTURY  415 

found  themselves  treated  with  no  more  'deference  and  respect'  than  the 
rudest  backwoodsman,  whose  coin  and  whose  rights  were  as  good  as  any 
man's.  Only  to  'the  lady'  was  homage  paid,  and  she,  whether  'rich  or 
poor,  mistress  or  maid,'  had  'a  right  to  the  best,  to  the  head  of  the  table/ 
Calhoun  and  a  hundred  other  hungry  men  might  lean  on  their  chairs  and 
wistfully  watch  their  fricasseed  chicken  and  hot  rolls  cool  while  a  be- 
ruffled  Miss  lingered  in  the  cabin  to  twist  her  last  curl  about  her  finger — 
but  this  was  her  privilege  as  a  woman.48 

As  travel  went  in  1845,  the  river  boat  was  enjoyable.  There  were,  of 
course,  certain  objections.  Calhoun  might  have  noted  that  the  deck  of  the 
gentlemen's  cabin,  like  that  of  the  Senate  Chamber,  was  not  only  deep  in 
carpet  but  steeped  in  tobacco  juice.  As  a  newcomer  to  river  travel,  he  might 
have  voiced  fear  that  the  boiler  had  burst  at  the  first  'frightful'  discharge 
of  steam,  but  would  have  laughed  with  the  others  when  the  birds  in  the 
branches  overhead,  hardened  to  'progress/  were  shown  completely  tin- 
frightened  by  the  snortings  of  a  steamboat.  And  he  would  have  soon  ac- 
customed himself  to  the  sounds  and  smells  of  travel,  the  grate  of  the 
bottom  against  a  sandbar,  the  ripping  of  planks  by  a  snag,  and  the  smell 
of  the  sperm  lamps  in  the  evening. 

At  dusk  most  of  the  passengers  would  'go  below.'  Some  read;  others 
played  cards,  and  there  were  stewards  who  'knew  the  secret  of  juleps.'  *9 
At  ten  the  curtains  were  drawn.  Not  enough  room  in  the  ladies'  cabin? 
Then  we'll  cut  off  a  slice  from  the  men's.  The  gentlemen  could  draw  lots 
for  the  berths  that  were  left. 

Calhoun  would  have  cared  little  whether  or  not  his  number  came  up. 
There  was  a  surplus  of  him  for  the  bed;  the  'neat  little  cot'  of  the  steam- 
boat was  built  only  for  a  five-foot-ten  limit.  There  would  have  been  little 
chance  for  sleep  in  any  case,  what  with  the  'suffocating'  air  and  the  heat 
from  the  boiler;  the  smells  of  sweat  and  starch,  brandy  and  tobacco,  and 
the  constant  talk  of  those  who  'could  neither  sleep  themselves,  nor  allow 
others'  to  do  so.  There  was  little  rest  even,  in  that  din  of  crying  babies,  the 
'tremor  from  the  machinery,  the  puffing  of  the  waste  pipe,'  and  the  'end- 
less thumping  of  the  billets  of  wood  on  their  way  to  the  furnace.' 50 

Calhoun  might  have  preferred  to  spend  the  night  on  deck  with  a  group 
of  his  fellow  travelers,  talking  the  'eternal  polities'  of  shipboard,  hearing 
the  varied  but  eternal  reiteration:  'The  Northern  democracy  must  join 
with  the  South  and  elect  a  Southern  President,  or  the  Union  is  gone  for- 
ever.' 51  Or  he  could  seek  solitude  at  the  ship's  rail.  Overhead  was  air  of 
such  purity  that  the  moss-draped  trees  at  the  water's  edge,  the  white  gleam 
of  the  prow,  even  a  sagging  river  landing,  stood  out  in  'tenfold  beauty,'  and 
the  very  stars  no  longer  seemed  the  same.  Below  lay  the  'muddy  Missis- 
sippi,' quivering  in  the  pale  candlelight  beauty  of  the  moon.  He  would 
draw  back  finally,  seek  a  seat  on  a  trunk,  and  join  the  passengers  at  talk 
until  breakfast. 


416  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

Ponderously  the  steamer  moved  upstream.  At  a  landing  a  Negro  might 
signal,  tell  the  boat  to  wait  ctill  Master  was  ready.'  Later  would  come  a 
stop  for  sugar  and  then  for  thundering  bale  after  bale  of  cotton.  At  either 
side  of  the  broad,  brown  highway  of  water  were  the  'wretched-looking' 
waterfront  villages  of  the  Mississippi,  where  woodcutters'  huts  teetered  on 
rotting  green  piles  and  gaunt-ribbed  cows  and  pigs  stumbled  knee-deep 
in  water.  In  a  cabin  doorway  would  lean  a  woman,  'the  very  image  of  dirt 
and  disease,'  her  face  bluish  white,  'her  squalling  baby  on  her  hip-bone.' 
And  as  the  mighty  steamer  passed,  the  mud-streaked  children  would  pause 
from  their  play  and  stand  staring,  lifting  faces  of  the  same  'ghastly  hue.' 52 

Swamp  and  forest  and  jungle  closing  in,  and  then  a  tunnel  of  oaks,  golden 
streamers  of  sun  lacing  the  dark  earth  below;  and  at  the  end  the  towering 
columns  of  a  Doric  temple,  now  pink,  now  yellow,  now  white  in  the  falling 
light.  Bon  Sejour,  Ormond,  Uncle  Sam,  Ashland — the  glorious  pageant 
thundered  by. 


In  November,  Calhoun  arrived  at  his  destination — the  Memphis  Con- 
vention. There,  as  president,  he  sounded  the  keynote  with  a  plea  for 
harmony,  for  unity  above  party  feelings.  A  single  purpose  dominated  his 
mind:  the  union  of  South  and  West  as  a  counterbalance  to  Northern  ma- 
jority rule. 

Southern  values  could  survive  only  if  linked  economically  to  the  agri- 
cultural West,  he  told  the  convention.  West  and  South,  the  common 
treasure-trove  from  which  Northern  capital  was  drawn,  must  unite  on  a 
national  policy.  In  such  a  cause,  what  did  the  labels  of  Whig  and  Democrat 
matter?  He  spoke  with  an  eloquence  rare  in  his  later  days,  his  stooped  body 
drawn  erect,  his  deep  eyes  glowing  as  if  they  gave  off  'light  in  the  dark.5  53 
Once  again  he  voiced  the  dream  of  'balanced  industry,'  of  a  balanced  union; 
but  now  his  views  were  startling.  Congress  must  protect  commerce  on  the 
Mississippi,  he  told  the  delegates.  The  great  river  was  really  an  'inland  sea.' 
Congress  had  power  to  regulate  commerce  'among  the  several  states';  thus, 
with  federal  aid,  and  the  consent  of  the  states  involved,  could  the  Missis- 
sippi become  the  fountainhead  of  a  mighty  flood  of  prosperity  for  the 
Southern  and  Western  states.  It  was  the  youthful,  nationalistic  Calhoun  of 
an  earlier  era  who  made  these  ringing  demands,  but  it  was  an  aging  man 
in  declining  health  who  finally  broke  off,  'becoming  very  hoarse,'  against 
prolonged  and  repeated  calls  to  go  on. 

Only  in  the  cool  of  the  aftermath,  with  the  speaker's  personal  spell 
shattered,  did  the  states'  rights  men  exchange  glances  of  wonder  and  dis- 
may. This  was  not  states'  rights,  this  interdependence  of  one  state  upon 
another,  and  of  the  combination  upon  the  whims  or  generosity  of  the 


XXIV  AMERICA  IN   MID-CENTURY  417 

federal  government.  This  was  nothing  more  than  Clay's  old  internal  im- 
provements program,  dusted  off  and  refitted— and  for  what?  Undoubtedly 
for  the  Presidential  campaign  of  1848  and  the  aspirations  of  Mr.  John  C. 
Calhoun. 

Calhoun  himself  was  insistent  that  his  program  rested  upon  the  'strictest 
state  rights  doctrines.54  He  wasted  no  thoughts  on  the  similarity  between 
federal  aid  for  manufacturers  and  federal  aid  for  Southerners.  His  pro- 
gram was  practical,  not  doctrinaire.  What  bewildered  his  following  was  the 
division  between  his  immediate  and  his  long-range  aims,  his  means  and  his 
ends. 

For  it  was  the  regional  and  the  economic  interests  of  the  country  that 
Calhoun  recognized  as  dominant  now.  In  theory  the  Union  was  built  on 
states;  in  practice  it  was  now  operating  in  terms  of  sections.  No  state 
could  stand  alone.  Every  right  the  individual  state  might  possess,  plus 
the  united  strength  of  the  South  itself,  was  not  enough  under  the  system 
of  majority  rule.  To  survive  within  the  Union,  the  South  must  find  allies 
with  whom  she  could  rule  the  Union. 

Calhoun  was  too  farsighted  to  deceive  himself  as  to  how  long  an  alli- 
ance between  the  agrarian  West  and  South  against  the  industrial  North 
would  endure.  No  man  more  acutely  realized  the  power  and  onrush  of 
the  industrial  movement.  What  he  sought  was  time,  a  temporary  alliance 
by  which  the  industrial  democracy  might  be  held  in  check  long  enough  to 
achieve  such  constitutional  reforms  as  would  insure  the  South's  and  the 
West's  safety — within  the  Union. 

He  was  fighting  to  win.  But  the  mental  intricacies  of  the  man  who  has 
been  called  the  most  'subtle'  of  all  American  statesmen  were  beyond  his 
own  times  and  his  own  admirers.  The  nationalism  of  this  new  program 
horrified  them.  The  prophet  had  gone  astray.  As  Jefferson  Davis  viewed 
it,  his  reversal  had  something  of  the  effect  which  would  have  been  produced 
by  Moses  altering  the  Ten  Commandments.55 

Assuredly  Calhoun  was  right  in  thinking  that  the  man  who  was  the 
candidate  of  a  single  section  alone  could  never  be  President.  But  what 
he  gained  in  the  West,  he  probably  lost  in  the  South.  Soon  Thomas 
Ritchie  was  openly  denouncing  him,  and  from  South  Carolina,  from  the 
Southern  Review,  and  even  from  his  own  cousin,  Francis  Pickens,  came 
'rude'  attacks  against  him. 

The  American  Review,  commenting  on  Calhoun's  'Memphis  Memorial,7 
prepared  for  submission  to  Congress,  conceded  that  'there  is  a  power  about 
Mr.  Calhoun's  name  and  position,  which  would  make  it  worse  than  bad 
taste  to  regard  any  State  paper  slightingly  that  comes  from  his  pen';  but 
was  amazed  at  the  'jumble  and  confusion'  of  his  ideas.  He  was  one  of  the 
'master-minds  of  this  country  and  age/  asserted  the  Review;  he  had  voiced 
a  principle  of  'transcendent  moment,'  but  encumbered  it  with  technicali- 
ties. How  could  Mr.  Calhoun  find  his  authority  for  the  development  of 


418  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 

state  rivers  and  harbors  in  the  Congressional  power  to  regulate  commerce 
'among  the  several  states'?  Was  not  this  a  clause,  not  of  privilege,  but  of 
restriction?  Where  was  the  great  'strict  constructionist  now'?  56 

Calhoun  paid  little  heed.  The  questioned  portion  of  the  Constitution, 
he  contended,  was  not  clearly  understood.  He  had  defined  the  line  between 
'internal  and  external  improvements/  had  endeavored  'rigidly'  to  restrict 
the  government  to  the  powers  belonging  to  the  'external  relations  of  the 
states/ 57  But  even  more  important,  as  he  revealed  to  his  brother-in-law, 
this  constitutional  doubt  was  the  'only  barrier  .  .  .  that  remains  between 
the  Union  of  the  South  and  West/  and  in  the  consummation  of  this  ideal, 
not  even  the  Constitution  would  stand  in  his  way.58 


8 

By  December,  1845,  Calhoun  was  back  at  Fort  Hill,  but  only  for  a  few 
days.  A  re-election  to  the  Senate  awaited  him,  a  prospect  which  pleased 
him  not  in  the  least.  His  trip  had  tired  him  more  than  he  would  admit;  he 
had  developed  a  cough  at  Memphis  which  he  was  unable  to  shake;  and 
a  physician  who  looked  him  over  shook  his  head,  warning  him  that  he 
required  complete  rest.59 

Concern  for  his  health,  however,  was  the  least  of  Calhoun's  worries.  For 
years  he  had  had  too  little  money  in  his  pocket,  and  had  lived  too  close 
to  the  border-line  of  comfort.  Now  with  falling  farm  prices  and  doctors' 
bills  and  a  family  of  boys  to  educate,  Calhoun  was  facing  genuine  financial 
disaster.  His  account-books  were  beginning  the  sorry  story  of  ever-mount- 
ing costs  and  ever-mounting  debt  that  was  to  dog  his  last  years;  a  story, 
incidentally,  that  was  being  told  and  retold  on  every  farm  and  plantation 
all  over  the  South.  It  is  surprising  that  Calhoun  did  not  seek  personal  ex- 
cuse in  the  common  tragedy;  but  his  Puritan  code  forbade  him  to  blame 
anyone  but  himself. 

Plantations,  he  knew  now,  could  not  be  run  by  remote  control;  and 
within  two  years  he  would  be  writing  frantically  to  Andrew  to  find  some 
way  to  raise  money  'to  meet  our  engagements.'  Soon  he  would  be  forced 
to  the  tragic  alternative  of  mortgaging  Fort  Hill.  But  embarrassed  as  he 
was,  he  had  withstood  an  offer  of  a  loan  from  Abbott  Lawrence,  which  he 
felt  was  offered  more  on  the  security  of  his  character  than  on  the  value 
of  his  cotton  futures.60  In  Washington,  Daniel  Webster  gallantly  offered 
him  a  loan.  Calhoun  declined.  'Ah,'  said  Webster  with  a  smile,  'Nature 
made  me  a  Cavalier  of  Massachusetts  and  you  a  Puritan  of  South  Caro- 
lina.' 

Calhoun  had  no  wish  to  be  'forced  into  the  Senate  again.' 61  Once  back  in 
harness,  he  sensed  that  he  would  never  be  free.  'Private  life  has  many 
charms  for  me,'  he  told  Duff  Green,  'and  it  will  be  difficult  for  me  to  retire 


XXIV  AMERICA  IN   MID-CENTURY  419 

at  any  time  hereafter.' 62  But  the  pressure  upon  him  was  almost  irresistible, 
and  his  stand  at  Memphis  had  only  heightened  the  clamor  from  all  sections 
of  the  country.  He  had  been  so  long  in  public  life  that  entire  generations 
had  grown  up  with  no  memory  of  the  country  without  him.  'We  regard  the 
absence  of  Mr.  Calhoun  as  a  national  calamity/  declared  the  New  Orleans 
Jeffersonian  Republican.  'No  man  now  living  is  so  familiar  with  the  great 
science  of  finance.' 63  The  call  was  national,  not  for  the  slaveholder  and  the 
Southerner,  but  for  the  nation-builder,  the  progressive  statesman  with 
his  'lively  interest  in  all  industrial  improvements.'  At  Memphis  he  had 
indeed  forever  wrecked  his  chances  of  peace  and  retirement.  The  program 
demanded  the  leader. 

Undoubtedly  Calhoun  meant  what  he  said,  however,  when  he  wrote 
James  Edward  that  'strong  as  the  pressure  was,'  he  would  never  have  con- 
sidered returning  to  public  life  had  he  not  had  'a  deep  conviction  that 
there  was  great  danger  of  a  war  .  .  .  [with  England]  and  that  I  might 
do  something  to  avert  so  great  a  calamity.'  No  one,  he  believed,  could 
realize  the  disasters  which  war  would  bring.  'I  fear  neither  our  liberty  nor 
constitution  would  survive.' ** 

It  was  this  fear,  the  conviction  that  his  statecraft  was  essential  to  ward 
off  conflict,  that  accounted  for  much  of  the  public  outcry  for  his  services. 
'It  is  the  South  that  demands  it.  It  is  Virginia  that  calls  for  it;  it  is  the 
Constitution  that  needs  it,'  trumpeted  the  Fredericksburg  Recorder.  'He 
must  pluck  the  weed  of  ambition  from  his  breast.' w 

This  last  shaft  struck  home.  Age,  illness,  defeat — nothing  could  kill  or 
cure  Calhoun's  ambition.  That  fall,  James  Hamilton  would  be  in  New 
York  lining  up  a  'Calhoun  committee'  to  support  the  South  Carolinian's 
candidacy  should  the  election  of  '48  be  thrown  into  the  House.  That  the 
Presidential  question  was  tantalizing  his  mind  is  undeniable;  as  he  ad- 
mitted to  Armistead  Burt:  'I  may  lose  much  for  the  Presidency.'  He 
could  not  get  through  without  'giving  and  receiving  blows,  and  losing  much 
of  the  good  feelings  now  felt  by  all.'  Not  even  President  Polk,  he  believed, 
really  wanted  war,  but  there  were  many  in  the  Administration  who  did; 
and  the  President  was  not  of  the  fiber  to  resist  their  importunities.  The 
people,  he  knew,  wanted  peace;  but  he  knew  that  it  was  the  leaders  and 
not  the  people  who  made  Presidential  candidates.  He  could  not  let  himself 
think  about  that.  'I  would  have  been  unworthy  of  the  high  place  in  which 
my  friends  desire  to  place  me,  had  I  yielded  to  such  considerations.' w 

He  was  aware,  too,  of  his  responsibilities  to  the  program  he  had  set  in 
motion  at  Memphis.  He  had  conceived  it;  he  alone  could  bring  it  to 
realization  on  the  floor  of  Congress.  To  the  Charleston  Mercury  it  seemed 
to  embody  the  very  'hope  of  the  future';  to  Calhoun  himself  it  seemed  the 
strongest  of  all  possible  guarantees  against  disunion.  And  to  prevent  dis- 
union he  would  'make  any  personal  sacrifice.'  It  was  with  these  hopes  of 
staving  off  a  war  and  uniting  the  South  and  the  West  that  he  pulled  him- 


420  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 

self  once  more  into  the  swaying  confines  of  the  stagecoach  and  set  his 
face  toward  Washington.  He  did  not  despair.  'I  have  with  me,'  he  wrote 
Andrew,  'the  wise  and  patriotick  of  all  parties;  and  I  shall  be  supported 
by  the  almost  united  voice  of  Virginia  and  S.C.  with  the  most  talented 
portion  of  the  South,  and  the  convictions  of  my  own  mind.'  67  Nor  did  the 
prospect  of  the  dreary,  comfortless  months  ahead  appall  him  as  in  recent 
years.  For  with  him  in  the  coach  were  Floride  and  Cornelia. 


XXV 
Nation-Si&ed  ^American 


CALHOUN  WAS  GROWING  OLD.  Not  yet  sixty-four  when  lie  returned  to 
Washington  for  that  stormy  winter  session  of  1846,  he  looked  ten  years 
more.  He  had  become  the  Calhoun  of  the  schoolhouse  textbooks,  stooped 
and  hollow-chested,  his  gray  hair  thrown  back  from  his  forehead  and  hang- 
ing in  masses  about  his  neck  and  temples.  Over  him  hung  'an  ah*  of  utter 
weariness/  although  there  were  moments  still  when  he  showed  an  energy 
that  his  'wasted  frame  scarcely  indicated  as  possible.' 

So  long  as  he  remained  at  Fort  Hill,  breathing  pure  air,  taking  the  rest 
and  exercise  that  he  knew  to  be  essential  to  him,  Calhoun's  tuberculosis 
remained  dormant;  but  back  in  the  maelstrom  of  the  capital  he  broke 
rapidly.  He  could  not  conserve  his  energy.  Accumulated  years  seemed  only 
to  have  tightened  his  nerves  and  intensified  his  mental  processes.  His  every 
action  was  quick,  and  when  he  spoke  it  was  still  as  though  'no  words 
could  convey  his  speed  of  thought.' x  It  was  his  intensity  which  troubled 
his  friends  most;  for  they  knew  how  fiercely  his  emotions,  even  when 
bottled  up,  drained  his  vitality. 

It  was  at  this  period  that  he  burst  out:  'If  you  should  ask  me  the 
question'  what  'I  would  wish  engraved  on  my  tombstone,  it  is  Nullifica- 
tion.' The  crisis,  now  thirteen  years  past,  had  left  scars  upon  him  that  he 
was  only  beginning  to  reveal.  Only  now  could  he  speak  of  how  much  his 
state's  loyalty  had  meant  to  him  hi  those  dark  hours.  'South  Carolina  alone 
stood  by  me.  She  is  my  dear  and  honored  State  .  *  .  South  Carolina  has 
never  mistrusted  nor  forsaken  me.  .  .  .  Mine  she  has  ever  been.'  He  'hung 
upon  her  devotion,'  recorded  the  startled  woman  to  whom  he  made  these 
confidences,  'with  all  ...  the  tenderness  .  .  .  with  which  a  lover  dwells 
upon  the  constancy  of  his  mistress  .  .  .  his  breath  ,  .  .  quick  and  short; 
his  proud  head  flung  back,  and  his  voice  subdued  by  emotion.* 

Worn  out  though  he  was,  it  was  only  too  plain  that  his  ambition  was  not 
dead.  His  protestations  were  too  vehement.  'I  cannot  describe  to  you,  I 
cannot  express  the  indifference  with  which  I  regard  the  Presidential  Chair .* 
He  added,  'with  a  scornful  smile,'  'I  will  not  sacrifice  the  shadow  of  a 
principle  for  its  possession.' 

Not  the  South,  but  the  country,  was  now  foremost  in  his  thoughts.  To 


422  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

his  friends  it  seemed  extraordinary  that  this  austere  man,  unskilled  in 
the  arts  of  party  politics,  could  have  become  'the  representative  of  interests 
which  .  .  .  are  in  contra  position  to  each  other/  uniting  and  guarding 
each,  and  'preserving  entire  the  integrity  of  all.' 2  For  the  South  his  plat- 
form was  peace,  free  trade,  and  a  lowered  tariff.  For  the  North  he  offered 
the  raw  materials  of  the  West  and  new  land  for  the  young  men  now 
grubbing  away  at  the  rocky  New  England  soil.  And  for  tie  West  his  pro- 
gram had  been  outlined  at  Memphis — railroads,  harbor  ports,  commercial 
union  with  the  South,  'Manifest  Destiny.' 


Washington  in  1846,  a  'rambling,  scrambling  village,'  with  hovels  elbow- 
ing mansions  from  Georgetown  to  the  Capitol,  still  had  'that  uncomfortable 
air  of  having  been  made  yesterday.'  But  it  was  depressing  no  longer.  Green 
blinds  were  fastened  'outside  all  the  houses,  with  a  red  curtain  and  a  white 
one  in  every  window.'  Calhoun  noticed  that  more  and  more  public  buildings 
were  going  up  'in  a  handsome  style  of  Greek  architecture,'  but  not  yet  were 
the  vacant  fields  and  sand-lots  filled  in,  and  the  'would-be  metropolis'  still 
looked  like  'some  projector's  scheme'  which  had  failed. 

In  the  spring  the  Capitol  grounds  were  aflame  with  roses,  tulips,  and 
a  single  peony  bush  bending  under  the  weight  of  nearly  a  hundred  flowers, 
many  of  them  six  inches  across.  Here  in  the  early  afternoons  passers-by 
could  see  Thomas  Hart  Benton's  invalid  wife,  sitting  on  a  bench  with  Old 
Bullion  whispering  into  her  ear  or  picking  bouquets  of  wild  flowers  to  place 
in  her  hands.  There  were  the  night  parties  at  Boulanger's,  where  you  could 
still  get  Maryland  oysters  and  Virginia  terrapin,  the  'best  brandy  in 
America/  and  Madeira  that  dated  back  to  pre-Revolutionary  days;  and 
there  were  the  Marine  Band  concerts  on  Wednesday  afternoons  on  the 
White  House  lawn.  On  Saturdays  they  were  held  under  'a  clump  of  trees 
on  the  enclosed  green  between  the  President's  house  and  the  war  office';  3 
and  here,  descending  from  carriage  after  carriage,  came  the  Washington 
great.  You  saw  Pennsylvania's  James  Buchanan,  tall  and  fair,  'his  good 
looks  marred  only  by  the  nervous  jerking  of  his  head  ...  his  unwilling 
footsteps  ,  .  .  just  upon  the  boundary  of  middle  age.'  Arm  in  arm  would 
be  the  strapping  six-footer,  'Bob'  Toombs  of  Georgia,  with  his  'beautiful 
hands'  and  mane  of  black  hair  tossed  back  like  Danton's,  and  frail  little 
Alexander  Stephens,  beardless,  wrinkled,  with  his  piping  -voice  and  his 
'virile  mind.' 

Among  the  crowds  moved  dapper  Nathaniel  Willis  of  the  Society  Letters, 
looking,  with  his  monocle,  more  like  a  duke  than  a  reporter  for  the  New 
York  Daily  Mirror;  Webster,  talking  'agreeable  nonsense'  to  the  girls;  red- 
faced  old  John  Quincy  Adams,  with  'a  young  lady';  Calhoun,  'smiling  and 
happy'  with  a  gentleman.  'Of  course,  Mr.  Calhoun  and  Mr.  Webster  were 


XXV          A  NATION-SIZED  AMERICAN  423 

the  most  distinguished  looking  men/  commented  Mrs.  Robert  Tyler,  the 
ex-President's  daughter-in-law.4 

Society  was  as  informal  as  it  was  gay:  the  scent  of  Rhine  wine,  the 
gentlemen  pledging  the  ladies,  a  Senator  stuffing  himself  into  a  fur  coat  to 
play  Santa  Glaus,  or  tall,  swaybacked  Jefferson  Davis  rising  to  sing  a 
Christmas  song.  All  Washington  chuckled  for  weeks  over  the  frightened 
look  in  the  pale  blue  eyes  of  the  dumpy  little  Swedish  author,  Fredericka 
Bremer,  as  at  an  evening  party  Webster,  somewhat  the  worse  for  wine  and 
wearing  a  white  linen  waistcoat  which  made  him  'appear  unusually  large,' 
arranged  himself  before  her  in  his  most  'stately'  oratorical  pose,  his  hand 
upon  his  heart,  and  in  his  Senatorial  voice  boomed:  'Madam,  you  have 
toiling  millions,  we  have  boundless  area  .  »  .' 

'Y--c  s,  very  moch,'  the  startled  Miss  Bremer  interrupted,  the  purple 
ribbons  on  her  lace  cap  bobbing;  but  at  that  moment  Jefferson  Davis 
hustled  out  the  would-be  orator  of  the  evening.5 

There  was  plenty  to  talk  about  in  the  crowded  drawing  rooms:  the  bon 
mot  of  a  Washington  wit,  who,  upon  receiving  a  note  from  a  society  woman 
whose  ideas  of  spelling  were  purely  theoretical,  had  commented,  'Do  you 
not  think  that,  with  such  difficulty  about  spelling,  it  was  kind  in  her  to 
try  it?3 — the  crowds  of  tourists  staring  at  the  new  private  bathtubs  in  the 
National  Hotel— and  Mr.  Morse's  'machine'  that  made  the  'wires  talk/ 
But  pre-eminent  in  public  attention  was  the  first  American  World's  Fair 
— the  National  Exhibition  of  184S.  Each  state  had  sent  exhibits  to  the 
ramshackle,  roughly  clapboarded  room  which  stretched  two  full  blocks  on 
C  Street.  Calhoun,  with  his  zest  for  scientific  improvements,  probably 
paused  longest  before  the  'sewing  jenny  .  .  .  that  stitches  like  the  hand- 
work,3 and,  watching  closely,  he  could  see  a  needle  ply  through  a  strip  of 
cloth,  sewing  'a  pretty  good  seam.'  * 

He  might  have  stopped,  too,  to  chat  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jefferson  Davis 
and  ex-President  Tyler,  who  were  taking  turns  drinking  from  a  tin  cup 
into  which  Tyler  had  milked  the  prize  cow.  Calhoun,  it  seems,  took  Davis's 
'little  wife'  more  seriously  than  did  her  own  husband.  At  any  rate,  he 
favored  her  with  long  letters  in  which  he  discussed  political  questions  with 
as  much  depth  and  care  as  if  she  were  a  contemporary.  Varina  was  much 
flattered,  but  to  her  distress  found  that  Calhoun's  handwriting,  'though 
neat,'  was  so  illegible  that  she  could  scarcely  make  out  a  word.  She  finally 
bundled  up  a  sheaf  and  took  them  over  to  Calhoun's  lodgings  for  his 
interpretation.  -He  gazed  at  them  sadly.  'I  know  what  I  think  on  these  sub- 
jects,' he  said,  'but  I  cannot  decipher  what  I  wrote.' 7 


In  1848,  after  House  sessions  were  adjourned,  a  young  Whig  Congressman, 
long  and  lank,  with  lined  cheeks,  rough  black  hair,  and  a  cravat  twisted 


424  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

beneath  his  ear,  would  slip  into  a  Senate  gallery  seat  and  listen  to  Cal- 
houn  with  profound  attention.  It  was  style  more  than  content  that  inter- 
ested him.  In  the  era  of  Webster's  and  Clay's  ornate  bombast,  Calhoun's 
austere  style  was  regarded  as  highly  unorthodox  if  not  inferior  to  the  boom- 
ing eloquence  around  him.  But  Abraham  Lincoln  of  Illinois  thought  other- 
wise. With  instinctive  taste,  he  was  pruning  his  own  flamboyant  style, 
stripping  off  the  surplus  wordage,  and  frankly  reshaping  his  sentences  into 
the  dean-cut  phrases  he  admired  in  Calhoun.8 


Although  society  flooded  in  upon  Calhoun  at  his  lodgings,  he  could  take 
no  part  in  the  Washington  gaieties  at  all.  His  seclusion  was  of  necessity, 
not  choice.  He  had  mellowed  with  the  years,  and  now  looked  with  wistful 
eyes  on  the  pleasures  which  his  limited  strength  would  not  permit  him  to 
enjoy.  'I  like  balls,  they  are  beautiful  things/  he  told  a  friend  in  the 
winter  of  1846,  'but  now  I  have  a  cough  .  .  .  and  I  fear  the  evening  air/  9 
Deliberately  Calhoun  was  rationing  the  time  left  to  him.  'I  have  made  an 
allotment  of  these  years,'  he  said,  'a  portion  for  America,  a  portion  for  my 
own  private  affairs,  (for  I  am  a  planter  and  cannot  afford  to  be  idle)  and  a 
portion  I  have  reserved  for  peculiar  purposes,  connected  only  with  my- 
self.' 10  He  knew  now  that  he  would  die  in  harness,  for  Washington  still 
whispered  of  his  indignation  when  young  Representative  Isaac  Holmes 
carried  to  him  Folk's  praise  for  his  'high  talents,'  and  the  offer  of  the  'Mis- 
sion to  the  Court  of  St.  James's,  with  its  ostensible  transfer  of  the  Oregon 
question  .  .  .  entirely  to  his  charge.'  Instantly  Calhoun's  perceptions  had 
penetrated  the  ruse.  Every  muscle  in  his  face  went  tense.  'No,  sir — no,' 
he  said.  'If  the  embassies  of  all  Europe  were  clustered  into  one,  I  would 
not  take  it  at  this  time  .  .  .  here  ought  to  be  the  negotiations,  and  here 
will  I  stand.'11 


War  is  almost  upon  us,'  was  the  cry  of  Lewis  Cass  in  December,  1845. 
After  twenty-five  years'  joint  and  peacef id  occupation  of  the  great  'Oregon 
country/  stretching  from  Wyoming  to  Alaska,  America  was  risking  all,  for 
all,  or  for  nothing.  Tifty-Four-Forty  or  Fight'  had  been  Folk's  campaign 
cry;  this  fact  lay  behind  Calhoun's  refusal  of  the  British  mission.  *  The 

*  Despite  the  campaign  oratory,  President  Polk  had  made  an  offer  to  Britain  of 
compromise  on  the  forty-ninth  parallel,  in  the  summer  of  1845.  This  was  summarily 
rejected,  and  to  save  face,  Polk  felt  compelled  to  resume  his  original  position.  Hence, 
his  hands  were  tied,  and  any  future  moves  toward  compromise  would  have  to  come 
from  outside  his  Administration  backed  by  a  groundswell  of  public  opinion. 


XXV  A  NATION-SIZED  AMERICAN  425 

c joint  occupancy'  was  ended;  by  arms,  or  by  pen,  the  question  would  be 
settled,  and  it  would  be  settled  'here.' 

The  nerves  of  the  nation  were  taut  with  fear.  In  Charleston,  where  Cal- 
houn  stopped  for  a  few  days  on  his  way  North,  the  excitement  was  'great/ 
and  the  despondency  even  more  so.  What  wish  had  the  South  Carolina 
slaveholder  to  shed  his  blood  in  a  fight  against  his  best  customers,  a  fight 
for  new  'free  soil'  for  the  North?  And  while  Calhoun  sat  in  a  Charleston 
drawing  room,  trying  to  compose  his  thoughts  and  balance  a  teacup,  as  the 
feminine  chatter  swirled  and  eddied  about  him,  a  woman  burst  out  with 
the  one  question  that  was  on  everybody's  mind:  'Do  you  think  there'll  be 
a  war?' 

Conversation  ceased,  every  eye  fixed  on  the  guest  of  honor.  Calhoun 
evaded  the  question.  He  had  been  away  from  Washington  a  long  time,  he 
said.  He  had  not  received  any  official  documents.  Gradually  the  excitement 
died  down  and  he  arose  to  take  his  leave.  An  eager  group  followed  him 
to  the  door,  among  them  his  own  former  family  governess,  Miss  Mary 
Bates. 

Turning  swiftly  to  her,  Calhoun  whispered:  'I  anticipate  a  severe  seven 
months'  campaign.  I  have  never  known  our  country  in  such  a  state.' 

'Oh,  Mr.  Calhoun,'  Miss  Bates  exclaimed,  'do  all  you  can  to  prevent  it  I* 

He  nodded.  'I  will  do  all,  in  honour,  I  can  do.'  He  was  silent  for  a  long 
moment.  His  face  was  dark  with  thought,  his  eyes  shadowed,  and  'bending 
a  little  forward,  as  if  bowed  with  a  sense  of  his  responsibility  and  insuf- 
ficiency, he  added,  speaking  slowly  and  with  emphasis  ...  as  if  ques- 
tioning with  himself:  "But  what  can  one  man  do?" ' 12 

What  one  man  could  do  it  was  his  task  to  do.  A  driving  purpose  was 
holding  him  up  in  his  work,  was  almost  keeping  him  alive.  He  had,  indeed, 
come  to  live  'almost  bodilessly  on  something  in  his  mind,  the  nourishment 
of  crowding  ideas,  or  a  driving  task.' 1S  His  time  was  short. 

The  selflessness  of  his  goal  was  known  to  all.  Calhoun,  when  con- 
fronted with  personal  tributes  from  Buchanan,  Polk,  and  even  Benton,* 
was  touched  to  tears.  Momentarily  even  party  feelings  were  stilled  in  his 
presence.  Not  even  in  his  brilliant  young  days  as  Secretary  of  War  had 
he  stood  so  high. 

All  eyes  were  on  him,  this  abstracted  man,  'carelessly  dressed,'  hair  'in- 
differently combed,'  walking  the  streets  absent-mindedly.14  'Now  the  ad- 
vocate of  war  and  now  of  peace  .  .  .  now  branded  as  a  Traitor;  now 
worshipped  as  a  Patriot  .  .  .  now  withstanding  Power,  and  now  the 
People;  now  proudly  accepting  office;  now  as  proudly  spurning  it;  now 
goading  the  Administration;  now  advising  it,'  now  the  defender  of  states' 
rights,  and  now  of  the  indestructibility  of  the  Union— his  unsolved  con- 
tradictions all  served  to  focus  public  attention  on  him. 

*  Benton  hated  Calhoun,  yet  conceded  him  to  be  *a  great  and  pure  man.' 


426  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

His  fame  had  become  world-wide.  'If  this  distinguished  Statesman  could 
be  prevailed  upon  to  visit  England  either  in  a  public  or  a  private  capacity/ 
recorded  Sarah  Maury,  'he  would  command  more  admiration  and  interest 
than  any  other  of  Europe  or  America.715 

Peace  or  war — the  responsibility,  he  felt,  rested  upon  him.  He  knew  how 
dangerous  to  his  own  future  his  task  would  be.  Temptation  was  beckoning 
from  every  side.  He  had  only  to  ride  the  popular  wave,  to  throw  himself 
with  Polk  and  the  Democratic  battle-cry,  to  regain  his  old  power  in  the 
party,  to  rally  the  land-hungry  Northern  democracy  to  himself  and  his 
cause.  In  following,  not  defying,  public  opinion,  'manifest  destiny7  might 
sweep  him  into  the  'President's  House,5  at  last.16 

Conversely,  he  could  rally  his  Southern  following,  confused  now  by  his 
course  at  Memphis.  He  could  denounce  all  expansion  of  free  territory  as  a 
menace  to  slave  security,  split  open  the  Democratic  Party,  turn  the  slave- 
holders against  Polk,  and  gain  for  himself  a  sweet  revenge.  And  had  am- 
bition been  as  strong  within  him  as  his  enemies  said,  one  of  these  al- 
ternatives would  have  been  his  course. 

Instead,  he  faced  the  jeers  from  the  West  that  he  would  accept  their 
help  for  Texas,  but  would  not  repay  the  compliment  with  'air  of  Oregon. 
He  defied  the  anger  of  imperialists,  who  sneered  that  he  would  have  risked 
war  had  Oregon  been  another  Texas.  And  he  gambled  his  popularity  in 
the  South,  which  saw  danger  in  every  foot  of  new  territory. 

He  was  for  'all  of  Oregon'  that  could  be  won  without  war.  He  knew  that 
it  was  destiny  that  Oregon  should  become  a  part  of  the  American  Union. 
He  had  fought  for  Oregon  in  the  State  Department;  he  would  fight  for 
Oregon  now.  To  his  very  bones,  he  knew,  just  as  he  had  known  with  Texas, 
what  Oregon  meant  and  would  mean  to  the  United  States  of  America. 


It  had  been  Jefferson  who  had  foreseen  'a  great,  free,  and  independent 
empire/  spreading  out  across  the  western  half  of  the  American  continent. 
Not  the  Westerner,  Jackson,  who  had  cried,  'concentrate  our  population; 
confine  our  frontier.'  Not  Clay,  or  Webster,  or  virtually  any  of  the  North- 
ern statesmen,  most  of  whom  never  saw  a  future  for  the  West.  Calhoun  had 
none  of  Webster's  ability  to  color  his  visions  in  a  tropic  glory  of  language 
that  could  fire  the  emotions  and  warm  the  heart.  Yet  it  was  he,  and  not  the 
New  Englander,  whose  vision  spanned  a  continent.17  And  it  was  in  no  small 
part  due  to  him,  who  won  more  by  demanding  less,  that  we  gained  our  great 
Northwest  realm. 

Oregon  had  become  a  part  of  the  American  legend.  Oregon  was  the 
Western  Star,  burning  in  the  dreams  of  two  generations  of  restless,  land- 
hungry  Americans.  But  all  that  country,  all  that  virgin  richness,  was  under 


XXV  A  NATION-SIZED  AMERICAN  427 

the  grip  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  of  Her  Majesty's  Empire,  a 
monopoly  that  could  sell  fifty  per  cent  cheaper  than  any  independent 
American  trader  could  afford. 

From  1812  to  1832,  scarcely  a  single  American  had  ventured  into  the 
Oregon  country.  But  not  all  the  propaganda  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company 
as  to  the  worthlessness  of  the  land,  nor  all  the  sedate  articles  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review,  which  dismissed  the  whole  vast  territory  as  not  'capable 
of  cultivation  .  .  .  not  worth  20,000  pounds  to  either  power5 18 — nothing 
could  kill  the  legend. 

Oregon  was  the  country  of  purple  twilights,  of  sunsets  two  hours  before 
midnight  and  dawns  two  hours  later.  Oregon  was  the  country  of  meadows, 
purple  with  camas,  and  of  plains,  blue  with  flax.  It  was  the  country  of 
the  thundering  buffalo  herds,  of  the  cone-shaped  peak  of  Mount  Saint 
Helena,  of  cliff  walls  towering  six  thousand  feet  above  the  valley  of  the 
Columbia,  of  giant  ferns  and  dogwood,  heavy  and  sweet  as  magnolia  blos- 
soms. 'The  trees  bend  with  fruit  in  Oregon,'  whispered  the  legend.  'Camas 
bread  grows  in  the  ground.  .  .  .  Money  grows  out  there  .  .  .  and  feather- 
beds  grow  on  the  bushes.  .  .  .' " 


In  1832,  the  'Bostons'  in  their  leather  pantaloons  and  white  wool  caps 
built  Fort  Hall  on  the  Snake  River,  and  blond  Nathaniel  J.  Wyeth,  laugh- 
ing into  the  deep-set  eyes  of  Dr.  John  McLoughlin  of  the  Hudson's  Bay 
Company,  announced  the  American  purpose  of  settling  Oregon.  Great 
Britain,  he  said,  would  only  keep  it  'as  a  great  English  hunting  park.' 

Swiftly  the  wily  doctor  denied  this.  Englishmen  would  settle  Oregon 
from  overseas.  As  for  America,  'when  you  have  levelled  the  mountains, 
cultivated  the  desert,  annihilated  distance,  not  before.' 20 

By  1840,  the  St.  Louis  trappers  were  winding  over  the  pack  trails  and 
seeping  down  into  the  country.  One  year  later,  an  exploring  squadron 
sailed  down  the  Columbia,  the  Stars  and  Stripes  waving  bright  against  the 
gray  walls  of  rock.  American  geologists  poured  out,  stood  squinting  at 
rocks,  soil,  hills,  and  even  the  stars.  Impudent  seamen  sold  a  surplus  load 
of  liquor  to  Dr.  McLoughlin,  then  invited  him  to  join  them  at  a  celebra- 
tion of  the  Fourth  of  July! 

Back  in  Washington,  South  Carolina's  George  McDuffie  expressed  his 
cynicism.  Seven  hundred  miles  this  side  of  .the  Rocky  Mountains  was  com- 
pletely uninhabited.  Rain  never  fell.  Such  wastes  could  never  be  con- 
quered by  American  men.21  Yet  as  early  as  1836  the  intrepid  Bonneville 
had  taken  a  covered  wagon  to  the  junction  of  the  Snake  and  Columbia 
Rivers.  By  summer  of  the  same  year,  two  wagons  were  rumbling  across  the 
desert.  Dr.  Marcus  Whitman,  with  his  young  bride  and  one  other  couple, 


428  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

armed  with  a  plow  and  two  rifles,  were  crossing  the  mountains,  fording 
the  rivers,  gambling  their  lives  and  plighting  their  futures  to  reveal  an 
empire  to  America. 

They  had  smelled  the  scent  of  the  same  shaggy  pines  under  which  Meri- 
wether  Lewis  had  lain.  Their  swaybacked  wagons  had  rolled  through  Great 
South  Pass  into  the  Rockies,  where  a  few  bronzed  mountaineers,  who  had 
seen  no  white  woman  since  they  had  last  looked  into  the  faces  of  their 
mothers,  stood  wondering  at  the  yellow  hair  and  soft  pregnant  body  of  Nar- 
cissa  Whitman.  Their  oxen's  hooves  scarred  the  earth  beside  the  prints  of 
the  antelope  and  the  buffalo;  they  crossed  the  seared  plains  of  the  Snake; 
they  saw  the  rolling  white  caps  of  the  Cascade  Range,  and  in  midstream 
a  naked  Indian  crouched,  spearing  salmon  from  a  rock.  They  had  con- 
quered the  impossible;  two  women  and  a  pair  of  covered  wagons  had 
crossed  the  Rocky  Mountains. 

By  the  fall  of  1842,  'all  along  the  borders,'  the  talk  was  of  Oregon. 
Fifty  men  and  twelve  women  on  pack-horses,  their  wagons  abandoned  at 
Green  River,  crossed  the  mountains  that  year.  More  were  on  the  way.  And 
at  Puget  Sound,  forearmed  with  ten  pounds  sterling,  plus  housing  materials, 
cows,  sheep,  oxen,  farm  tools,  and  seed,  the  citizens  of  Her  Majesty's 
Government  were  pouring  in,  twenty-three  families  the  first  year.  The  race 
was  on — f  or  an  empire  one-third  as  large  as  all  Europe. 


8 

Even  the  legend  could  not  equal  the  reality.  It  was  like  a  caravan  of 
ancient  times,  that  straggling  line  of  dingy,  white-topped  wagons,  those 
herds  of  cattle  and  oxen  and  horses,  those  men  and  women  and  children. 
It  was  a  new  world  into  which  they  were  moving,  with  only  the  sky  and 
the  stars,  the  coming  of  day  and  of  night,  of  winter  and  of  spring,  to 
remind  them  of  what  they  had  known  before. 

For  those  that  came  first  there  were  the  'naked  praries,'  stretching  from 
sunrise  to  sunset,  the  shouts  of  the  last  white  man  at  the  last  outpost  at 
Fort  Lage,  the  plow  banging  against  the  wagon  outside,  and  the  churn 
thumping  within.  By  day  was  the  crackle  of  sagebrush;  by  night,  of  the 
new  flames,  as  the  long  train  curved  into  a  circle,  'each  wagon  following 
in  its  track,  the  rear  closing  on  the  front  until  its  tongue  and  ox-chains'  ** 
would  reach  from  one  to  the  other,  and  in  the  circle's  center  rose  the  camp- 
fire,  red-painted  against  a  black  sky. 

Men  and  women  and  children — all  were  there — with  youth  and  vigor 
in  them,  with  flexible  muscles  that,  braced  to  the  jog  of  the  wagon  seat 
all  day,  could  still  dance  to  the  fiddle  strains  of  Tretty  Betty  Martin'  by 
night;  or  young  mothers  enduring  the  pain-lashed  rhythms  of  child-birth. 
Aged  women,  their  gaunt-knuckled  hands  loose  in  their  laps,  swayed  back 


XXV  A  NATION-SIZED  AMERICAN  429 

and  forth  in  cane-seated  rocking  chairs;  and  old  men  whose  bleached  eyes 
had  sighted  rifles  over  the  cotton  bales  at  New  Orleans;  whose  fathers  had 
fought  with  Putnam  and  Greene,  and  whose  older  brothers  had  broken  the 
frontiers  of  Ohio  and  Missouri  and  Boone's  Kentucky,  now  painfully  un- 
wound blood-stained  strips  of  their  ragged  trousers  from  feet  cut  to  rib- 
bons, as  they  stumbled  barefoot  through  the  snow  across  the  Blue  Moun- 
tains. 

Faces  were  etched  in  the  firelight:  the  smile  and  swagger  of  the  South, 
the  long  hard  bones  of  New  England;  faces  of  men  who  would  sit  in  the 
Senate  and  build  and  unbuild  governments,  men  who  would  found  cities 
with  names  like  Tacoma  and  Sacramento;  not  Northerners  now,  nor 
Southerners,  nor  Kentuckians,  nor  Rhode  Islanders,  but  Americans  united 
in  one  hope  and  one  purpose,  grumbling  a  little,  questioning: 

'Why  don't  the  government  protect  us?' 

'Oregon  don't  count  in  politics,  so  long's  the  nigger  question's  on  the 
boards.  .  .  .  Webster  was  talking  of  trading  it  off  for  a  cod-fishery  when 
we  left.' 

'Uncle  Sam  is  dozing  while  England  takes  the  country.' 


At  dawn  the  great  'horse-canoes'  stirred;  the  ox-whip  snapped;  the  cry 
sounded:  'Close  up!  Close  up!  The  Indians  could  kill  all  in  the  forward 
wagons  before  you'd  know  it,  and  then  come  back  and  scalp  the  last  one 
of  you  fellows  here  behind.'  The  wagons  groaned  and  swayed.  The  long 
snake  inched  on.  Fort  Laramie,  Fort  Bridges,  Fort  Hall,  and  Cayuses 
with  food-packs  hanging  from  the  plump  sides  of  their  ponies.  Forty  dollars 
for  the  last  barrel  of  flour!  And  the  warnings: 

'Look  out  for  the  Crows.' 

'Beware  of  the  Blackfeet.' 

'The  Sioux  will  oppose  you.' 

'You  can't  get  the  wagons  through.  There  you  see  the  ones  abandoned 
last  year.' 

Winter  was  coming.  There  would  be  no  water  in  the  Rocky  Mountain 
desert.  The  wolves  were  so  thin  you  could  count  the  ribs  in  their  sides. 
You  could  never  get  through  the  Snake  country.  The  Blue  Mountains 
were  worse  than  the  Rockies.  ... 

'That's  all  bosh,'  Marcus  Whitman  said. 

Onward  the  caravan  moved.  Hooves  and  feet  stumbling  against  the 
skeleton  of  an  abandoned  plow,  a  Windsor  chair,  or  the  sun-bleached 
circle  of  a  wagon  wheel.  Through  the  shallow  center  of  the  River  Red. 
'Up  the  Platte  and  towards  the  Yellowstone.'  New  names,  fresh-flavored 
on  the  American,  tongue:  Clackamas,  Motallas,  Klickitats,  Flatheads, 


430  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

Bannocks,  Nez  Perces,  Walla  Walla.  'If  those  Injuns  ever  combine  against 
us,  we're  lost.' M 

Fever.  Cholera.  Dysentery.  Graves  unmarked  beneath  the  long  grass 
of  the  prairie.  Folk  legend  became  fact  and  then  history.  The  cowards 
never  started,  and  the  weak  died  on  the  way.'  * 

The  day  came — the  day  came  when  they  saw  it  all:  the  great  valley  of 
the  Columbia,  seamed  with  a  streamer  of  gold,  the  river  ablaze  in  the  set- 
ting sun.  Below  rose  the  lodge  fires  of  the  Cayuse;  above,  in  the  pink  light 
towered  the  peaks  of  Mount  Hood  and  Mount  Helen  and  the  long  sprawl 
of  Adams,  glistening  in  the  first  fall  of  winter  snow. 

Journey's  end  for  Marcus  Whitman's  first  wagon  train  was  at  Fort 
Vancouver  on  the  north  bank  of  the  Columbia.  There,  one  day  after  their 
arrival  at  the  Cascades,  down  the  river  came  the  rafts  and  canoes  of  the 
immigrants.  Winter  rain  poured  upon  them.  Above,  eagles  circled  and 
screamed.  But  all  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  mighty  bulk  of  the  fortress 
itself,  its  green  terraces  sloping  upward,  its  posts  rising  twenty  feet  into 
sharp  points  to  gut  any  Redskin  bold  enough  to  scale  them.  They  could 
see  the  log  tower  in  the  northwest  corner,  raindrops  glistening  on  the 
bristling  cannon,  the  huge  brass  padlocks  of  the  stockade  gateway,  and 
the  bonfires  steaming  along  the  river  bank  where  a  man  was  standing. 

All  knew  his  name.  There,  in  a  two-storied  white  frame  house,  safe  be- 
hind the  walls  of  the  fort,  with  a  shipload  of  Boston  liquor  untouched  in 
his  cellar,  there,  with  his  Scott  and  his  Shakespeare  and  his  Burns,  Dr. 
John  McLoughlin  had  reigned  for  nineteen  years  as  governor  of  the  Hud- 
son's Bay  Company.  He  was  sixty-five  now;  he  had  lived  on  in  the 
wilderness  outpost  until  his  long  hair  hung  in  white  masses  about  his 
stern,  strong  face,  and  his  eyes  peered  dimly  from  behind  gold-rimmed 
spectacles.  Hard-bitten,  wily,  a  benevolent  despot,  McLoughlin  ruled  his 
little  empire  with  a  tolerance  grown  from  long  familiarity  with  men's 
needs.  Indians  came  and  went  freely  into  the  stockade;  and  for  five  to 
fifteen  blankets,  depending  upon  her  comeliness,  a  trader  of  the  Company 
could  purchase  a  copper-skinned  slave  whose  duties  were  by  no  means 
confined  to  the  daytime.  Of  Dr.  McLoughlin  himself  it  was  said:  'He  is 
a  good  man,  but  one-man  power  is  not  American.' 

Dr.  McLoughlin  had  thrown  Fort  Vancouver  open  to  his  uninvited 
guests.  He  had  been  expecting  them  since  the  day  before  when  a  canoe 
shot  over  the  Cascades  and  a  breathless  'Engine'  gulped  out  the  story 
of  a  thousand  'Bostons  camp  by  Mount  Hood.' 

Stunned,  the  old  man  had  raised  his  hand.  He  had  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross.  When  he  spoke,  his  voice  was  hushed:  'What  manner  of  men  are 
these  that  scale  the  mountains  and  slide  down  the  Rivers  as  the  Goths  of 
old  slid  down  the  Alps?' 

Gods  though  they  may  have  seemed  to  Dr.  McLoughlin,  in  that  glitter- 
ing moment  they  were  but  men  and  women  after  all,  sick,  and  ragged, 


XXV  A  NATION-SIZED  AMERICAN  431 

and  hungry.  And  in  his  moment  of  defeat,  the  Scotsman  had  not  forgotten 
his  gallantry.  That  night,  twenty-five  pounds  of  flour  for  each  family  had 
been  brought  into  the  American  camp.  With  it  came  luxuries  so  long 
sacrificed  they  were  almost  forgotten— syrup  and  sugar  and  even  tea. 
Pay? — that  was  something  to  talk  about  later.  And  among  the  women, 
one  sentiment  was  breathed:  'God  bless  Dr.  McLoughlin/ 

Spring  brought  McLoughlin's  own  farm  implements  and  wheat-seed. 
Fall  brought  the  dink  of  his  coins  as  sunburned  and  smiling  Americans 
carried  the  young  harvest  into  the  walls  of  the  stockade.  Out  in  the  harbor 
a  lank  Missourian  pulled  his  way  up  the  side  of  a  British  man-o'-war. 
'We've  come  from  Missouri  across  the  Rocky  Mountains.  We've  come  to 
settle  in  Oregon  and  rule  this  country.' 

The  Captain  glanced  at  the  unkempt  hair,  the  sallow,  leathery  face. 
'I've  sailed  into  every  corner  of  the  globe  and  have  seen  most  of  the 
people  on  it,  but  a  more  uncouth  .  .  .  bolder  set  ...  than  you  Amer- 
icans I  never  met  before.' 25 

A  year  rolled  away.  And  in  the  center  of  the  rich  Oregon  farm  country, 
near  Fort  Vancouver,  stood  a  village,  complete  with  library,  lyceum,  and 
the  first  Protestant  church  west  of  the  Rockies.  A  village  had  been  born, 
boastfully  and  promisefully  named  Oregon  City.  A  new  America  had 
grown  up  in  the  wilderness,  and  it  had  been  plows  and  not  guns  that  had 
won  an  empire. 


10 

They  swarmed  into  Calhoun's  office,  the  young  scouts,  the  trail-blazers 
with  the  new  beards  on  their  faces,  the  huntsmen  with  the  spring-trap 
muscles  and  moccasined  feet,  soft-padding  as  the  paws  of  wilderness  ani- 
mals. And  held  by  his  own  eager  questioning,  they  talked  until  on  the 
maps  that  lay  open  before  him  the  few  thin  lines  glistened  with  flowing 
river  water  and  the  unmarked  spaces  peaked  themselves  into  mountain 
ranges  or  smoothed  into  sun-seared  plains;  and  he,  too,  could  hear  the 
winds  of  the  West  thundering  in  the  rocky  crags  and  the  wagon  wheels 
echoing  across  six  thousand  miles  of  stillness. 

So  it  was  no  dream,  after  all,  that  great  country;  it  was  all  there,  just 
as  Meriwether  Lewis  had  seen  it,  and  as  Calhoun  had  dreamed  it,  while 
poring  over  maps  with  William  Lowndes  in  the  old  war  office,  twenty-five 
years  before.  Not  since  1812  had  such  enthusiasm,  such  fervor,  gripped 
him.  'Look  at  the  mighty  Mississippi/  he  had  exclaimed  to  a  British 
visitor.  'Twenty  hundred  miles  you  may  travel  on  his  waters;  go  on  for 
days  and  nights  and  see  no  change;  it  is  a  valley  that  would  contain  all 
Europe.'  For  he  was  not  afraid  of  bigness.  And  he  was  not  afraid  of 
progress,  though  men  who  saw  in  him  nothing  but  the  personification  of 


432  J°HN    C-   CALHOUN 

the  slavery  question  would  say  that  he  was.  Yet,  if  on  that  one  issue  his 
views  were  as  unyielding  and  provincial  as  the  little  state  from  which 
he  came,  on  the  surging  destiny  of  America  his  vision  was  broad  as  the 
nation  it  spanned. 

'Mr.  Calhoun,'  declared  a  foreign  visitor,  'you  are  a  great  experiment.' 
We  are  more/  he  flashed  back  boyishly.  'We're  a  great  hit/ 


11 

Yet  his  exultancy  was  not  unmixed  with  fear.  What  could  the  future 
hold  for  such  restlessness,  such  drive  as  had  this  sprawling  young  country 
of  his.  The  past  is  gone;  the  present  is  no  more;  the  future  alone  is  ours.7 
What  lurked  in  that  future?  Would  this  untapped  greatness,  this  unspent 
strength,  turn  upon  itself  and  rend  apart  its  own  greatness?  This  was  his 
fear.  'We  Americans  are  the  most  excitable  people  on  earth;  we  have 
plenty  to  eat  and  drink  so  we  seek  war  for  sport  that  we  may  exhaust 
ourselves  and  our  exuberance/  **  And  now  in  the  winter  of  1846,  with 
expansionists  still  beating  the  battle  drum  of  '54:40  or  Fight';  with  warm- 
blooded Southerners  casting  covetous  eyes  on  the  tropic  empire  of  Mex- 
ico and  looking  hopefully  toward  the  rich  farmlands  of  the  Far  West; 
with  the  covered  wagons  rolling  across  the  prairies  like  floodwatets  over 
a  broken  dam,  Calhoun's  great  fear  was  of  complete  disaster,  of  an  un- 
warranted, unsuccessful,  useless  war  with  England  and  the  loss  of  the 
entire  territory.  Nor  was  his  opposition  to  Folk's  cry  of  'All  of  Oregon 
or  none'  mere  personal  opposition  to  the  President,  for  all  that  he  said 
and  feared  he  had  said  and  feared  two  years  before. 

Aside  from  the  moral  or  humanitarian  aspects  of  an  imperialistic  war 
which  troubled  Calhoun  far  more  than  in  the  hot  days  of  his  youth,  he 
was  convinced  that  the  result  was  far  more  apt  to  be  'none'  of  Oregon 
than  'all.'  As  early  as  1842,  he  had  spoken  on  the  question,  in  words 
touched  with  the  fervor  of  his  vision,  yet  weighted  with  warnings  against 
acts  that  might  lose  America  the  entire  territory. 

Denouncing  a  bill  for  immediate  seizure  of  the  entire  territory,  he 
based  his  argument  on  the  immensely  practical  and  compelling  fact  that 
England  could  move  an  army  to  the  western  frontier  far  more  easily 
than  could  the  United  States.  There  were  the  Empire  troops  in  China; 
six  weeks  could  see  them  at  the  Oregon  frontier.  There  were  the  British 
troops  in  Persia  and  in  India.  As  for  us,  it  would  take  us  six  months 
alone  to  send  a  fleet  around  the  Horn.  'As  certain  as  we  regard  our 
right  to  be,'  was  Calhoun's  warning,  'she  regards  hers  as  not  less  so  ... 
if  we  assert  our  right,  she  will  oppose  us  by  asserting  hers  ...  the  result 
would  be  inevitable  ...  the  territory  would  be  lost.' 


XXV  A  NATION-SIZED  AMERICAN  433 

Nevertheless,  he  was  utterly  opposed  to  America's  giving  up  her  right- 
ful claims.  He  rebuked  Webster  for  his  indifference  to  the  potentialities 
of  the  country.  'My  object  is  to  preserve  and  not  lose  the  territory.  I  do 
not  agree  with  my  eloquent  colleague  that  it  is  worthless.  .  .  .  He  has 
under-rated  it  ...  its  commercial  advantages  .  .  .  will,  in  time,  prove 
great.' 

Soon,  asserted  the  enthusiastic  Carolinian,  all  the  ports  of  Japan,  China, 
Persia,  would  be  thrown  open  to  American  trade.  And  our  routes  would 
no  longer  be  around  the  storm-whipped  Horn,  but  through  that  new  and 
'worthless'  territory  of  Oregon.  'Time  is  acting  for  us/  he  proclaimed. 
'It  will  maintain  our  right  .  .  .  without  costing  a  cent  of  money  or  a 
drop  of  blood.' 

'Our  population  is  rolling  towards  the  shores  of  the  Pacific/  continued 
Calhoun.  'It  is  one  of  those  forward  movements  which  leave  anticipation 
behind.  In  thirty-two  years  the  Indian  frontier  has  receded  a  thousand 
miles  to  the  West  ,  .  .  the  impetus  .  .  .  forcing  its  way  restlessly,  west- 
ward .  .  .  soon — far  sooner  than  we  anticipate  .  .  .  will  reach  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  and  be  ready  to  pour  into  the  Oregon  Territory; — when  it 
will  come  into  our  possession  without  a  struggle.'  Then,  he  concluded, 
'it  would  be  as  useless  for  England  to  protest  our  claims,  as  it  was  now 
for  us  to  contest  hers.' 

If  we  could  not  seize  all  of  the  territory  by  renewing  the  existing  treaty 
for  joint  occupation,  neither  could  England.  But  he  would  give  unqualified 
support  to  that  portion  of  the  bill  which  would  extend  American  civil 
jurisdiction  over  our  own  citizens.  'I  am  opposed  to  holding  out  tempta- 
tion to  our  citizens  to  emigrate  to  a  region  where  we  cannot  protect  them.5 

Westerners  could  charge  that  he  was  opposed  to  the  extension  of  Amer- 
ican territory.  The  accusation  was  unjust.  Had  not  the  South  declared 
that  he  was  unduly  favoring  the  West  when  he  had  introduced  the  public 
domain  bill?  His  desire  was  to  promote  the  interest  of  the  whole  country. 
'In  opposing  the  measure,'  he  had  concluded,  'I  not  only  promote  the  in- 
terest of  the  Union  generally,  but  that  of  the  West,  especially.' 

It  was  a  ringing  speech,  and  it  captured  the  emotions  of  those  who 
read  it  and  heard  it.  Momentarily  Calhoun  had  been  able  to  restrain  the 
madness,  but  now  the  whole  job  had  to  be  done  over  again.  And  'the  odds,' 
Calhoun  confessed,  'are  greatly  against  me.'  * 

'All  of  Oregon  or  none' — was  it  rallying  cry  or  battle  cry?  Immediate  no- 
tice to  England  was  the  demand  of  the  extremists— the  formal  and  final 
severing  of  that  joint  occupancy  by  which  England  and  America  together 
had  uneasily  shared  the  giant  territory  for  twenty-eight  years. 

To  Calhoun  the  joint  occupancy  was  the  'trump  card'  of  the  entire 
question.28  Legally,  under  the  terms  of  the  Treaty  of  1818,  either  party 
could  abrogate  the  agreement  on  twelve  months'  notice;  actually  Cal- 


434  JOHN   C.    CALHOUN 

houn  was  convinced  that  cunqualified  notice'  would  'almost  certainly  lead 
to  war.529  To  avoid  such  a  conflict  with  the  most  powerful  nation  on 
earth  was  now  his  consuming  purpose. 

His  hopes  were  low.  The  extremists  were  'bold  and  decided.'  The  South, 
torn  between  the  Whigs,  Calhoun,  and  Polk,  was  hopelessly  divided;  and 
even  Calhoun's  own  supporters  had  'but  little  resolution.'  What  interest 
had  the  South  in  those  vast  wastes  of  land  which  any  thinking  man  knew 
that  Nature  had  ordained  as  'free'  soil?  But  Calhoun  could  not  withdraw. 
TataF  to  the  South,  as  well  as  to  the  nation,  he  thought,  would  be  a  war 
of  aggression,  in  which  Southern  men  would  shed  their  blood  for  free 
states.  It  was  'manifest  destiny'  that  these  states  belong  to  the  Union, 
but  not  the  territory  north  of  the  forty-ninth  parallel,  and  not  at  the  cost 
of  a  war. 

Calhoun's  reliance  was  on  the  silent  majority,  not  of  the  Senate,  or  of 
the  House,  but  of  the  people  themselves.  The  people,  he  believed,  did  not 
want  war.  Peace  would  not  lose  Oregon;  peace  would  win  it.  He  dusted 
off  an  old  phrase  from  John  Randolph  of  Roanoke.  'A  wise  and  masterly 
inactivity,'  he  believed,  was  still  the  surest  claim  to  title.80 


12 

Calhoun  had  scarcely  checked  in  at  the  United  States  Hotel  that  Decem- 
ber in  1845  when  he  was  summoned  to  the  White  House.  From  the 
Presidential  version  of  what  followed  we  learn  that  Calhoun  was  'in  a 
good  humor,'  and  'talked  in  a  pleasant  tone.'  Actually,  however,  very  little 
was  said.  Each  understood  the  insignificance  of  the  interview.  For  Polk 
to  have  failed  to  invite  Calhoun  to  a  conference  would  only  have  stressed 
the  party  rift  that  threatened  from  the  moment  of  Calhoun's  entry  into 
Washington. 

Polk  may  still  have  borne  a  grudge  against  Calhoun  for  having  robbed 
his  Administration  of  the  glory  of  the  Texas  annexation.  His  conscience, 
too,  may  have  troubled  him  at  his  own  hasty  repudiation  of  the  talents 
of  this  man,  who  he  uncomfortably  sensed  was  superior  to  himself.  Cal- 
houn had  been  flouted;  Calhoun  owed  him  nothing.  Calhoun  had  votes 
enough  to  wreck  the  President's  program  and  ambition  to  match  Ms  own. 
And  the  men  had  not  talked  three  minutes  before  Mr.  Polk  felt  the  iron 
beneath  the  velvet  glove,  and  learned  that  once  Calhoun's  mind  was  settled 
upon  a  subject,  'it  was  useless  to  press  it.' 81 

And  Calhoun,  what  of  him?  He  had  reason,  perhaps,  to  bear  a  grudge 
against  the  President,  but  he  would  have  scorned  to  indulge  it.  'It  was  not 
in  the  power  of  Mr.  Polk  to  treat  me  badly,' S2  he  had  proudly  written 
Anna  Maria  on  the  eve  of  his  dismissal  from  the  State  Department. 

That  Polk  was  actually  seeking  to  involve  the  country  in  war,  Calhoun 


XXV  A  NATION-SIZED  AMERICAN  435 

did  not  believe  for  a  moment.  What  he  did  see  was  the  President  as  the 
victim  of  his  own  campaign  promises.  To  save  the  'country  from  war, 
without  the  loss  of  the  Oregon  territory;  and  to  take  upon  himself  the 
post  of  public  whipping  boy,  who  could  be  safely  blamed  for  the  loss  of 
'Fifty-Four-Forty'  was  the  position  Calhoun  decided  to  assume.  It  was  a 
difficult  position,  but  to  accept  it  imposed  an  equally  difficult  task  upon 
the  President. 

In  the  Senate,  debate  sputtered  and  simmered.  From  the  gallery  a  fright- 
ened Englishwoman  watched.  It  was  a  Westerner,  this  time,  who  was 
openly  urging  war.  'Calhoun  sat  quietly,  but  was  visibly  chafed.'  He  rose 
at  last,  with  'words  of  peace  and  praise  for  England/  the  first  time  in  a 
month  that  the  name  of  England  had  been  uttered  without  anger.83  She 
leaned  back  in  silent  gratitude,  tears  pouring  down  her  face. 

Calhoun  was  unswayed  by  the  hysteria  around  him.  The  tide  for  'im- 
mediate notice,'  he  knew,  was  too  strong  to  be  withstood.  What  he  hoped 
was  that  the  notice  might  be  qualified  by  'making  it  a  condition  .  .  .  that 
it  shall  be  accompanied  with  the  offer  of  the  49th  parallel.'  That  'the 
British  government  would  agree'  had  been  his  opinion  since  January,  1846. 

Yet  a  British  offer  on  the  same  basis,  he  doubted  could  be  or  would 
be  accepted  by  the  President,  'unless  Congress  should  express  an  opinion, 
which  would  make  it  his  duty;  in  so  awkward  a  condition  is  Mr.  Polk 
placed.'  Polk  could  scarcely  repudiate  his  pledges.  Thus,  to  bring  pressure 
upon  Congress,  which  would  in  turn  bring  pressure  on  Mr.  Polk,  was 
Calhoun's  aim.  A  way  must  be  opened  through  which  the  President  could 
support  compromise.84 


13 

The  date  was  the  sixteenth  of  March,  1846.  By  eight  in  the  morning,  the 
crowd  began  to  gather  around  the  doors  of  the  Capitol.  Before  noon  the 
galleries  and  passages  were  clogged  with  a  panting,  close-packed  mass  of 
eager  and  perspiring  humanity.  'Thousands'  were  unable  to  get  into  the 
building  at  all.  As  Calhoun  sat  down  for  roll-call,  a  wave  of  anxiety  swept 
over  him.  Not  since  the  'Force  Bill'  days  had  it  been  like  this.  Now  he 
was  old.  What  if  he  should  fail?  85 

At  last  the  stiflingly  hot  room  was  silent.  Calhoun  arose.  He  stood  still 
a  moment,  erect  and  poised,  showing  no  sign  of  his  tension.  Then  he 
began,  quietly  as  always,  promising  at  the  outset  that  he  would  'abstain 
from  all  personalities  and  everything  calculated  to  wound  the  feelings  of 
others,  but  shall  express  myself  candidly  on  all  subjects.'  His  words  were 
soothing,  strangely  calm.  Peace  or  war,  he  declared,  was  not  the  issue.  It 
was  not  a  question  of  war,  but  of  time.  Opinion  was  too  divided  for  warr 
and  were  not  these  divisions  of  opinion,  even  in  regard  to  our  actual  title 


436  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

to  the  territory,  'strong  reasons  why  the  conflict  should  not  be  settled  by 
an  appeal  to  force?' 

Oregon  was  far  from  Great  Britain.  Free  trade,  extended  throughout 
the  Pacific  area,  he  believed,  would  in  the  end  'prove  the  strongest  induce- 
ment to  emigration,'  and  the  plows  of  emigrants  were  a  far  surer  claim  to 
title  than  guns.  Oregon's  settlers,  he  believed,  would  contend  as  fiercely 
for  their  trade  rights  as  the  New  Englanders  had  done  before  the  Revolu- 
tion. 'Should  we  restrict,  by  our  high  Tariff  .  .  .  their  infant  trade,  they 
might/  he  hinted,  'readily  find  a  power  prepared  to  extend  to  them  all 
the  advantages  of  free  trade,  to  be  followed  by  consequences  not  difficult 
to  be  perceived.' 

'I  know,'  admitted  Calhoun,  'that  in  the  existing  state  of  the  world, 
wars  are  necessary  .  .  .  that  tie  most  sacred  regard  for  justice,  and  the 
most  cautious  policy  cannot  always  prevent  them.  When  war  must  come, 
I  ...  appeal  to  iny  past  history  to  prove  that  I  shall  not  be  found  among 
those  who  .  .  .  falter;  but  ...  I  regard  peace  as  a  positive  good  and 
war  as  a  positive  evil.  ...  I  shall  ever  cling  to  peace,  so  long  as  it  can 
be  preserved  consistently  with  .  .  .  safety  and  honour.'  The  war  would 
be  a  struggle  for  mastery  between  'the  greatest  power  in  the  world  .  .  . 
against  the  most  growing  power,'  but  it  would  not  protect  the  citizens  of 
Oregon.  'It  would  sacrifice'  American  'brethren  and  kindred.  We  have  en- 
couraged them  to  emigrate,  and  I  will  not  give  a  vote  which  would  .  .  . 
ruin  them.  .  .  .  War  .  .  .  would  be  disastrous.  If  we  did  conquer  Canada, 
New  Brunswick,  and  Nova  Scotia/  observed  Calhoun,  mindful  of  the 
grim  lesson  of  1812,  'it  would  require  ten  years.'  Of  the  human  suffering 
he  would  not  speak.  It  would  have  'but  little  effect  in  deterring  a  brave 
people.'  But  a  two-ocean  Navy,  six  or  seven  armies,  one  on  the  Mexican 
border  to  meet  an  enemy  bought  and  trained  by  the  British  Empire — 
was  America  prepared  for  the  cost  of  these?  Yes,  and  an  inflationary 
paper  currency,  and  a  public  debt  of  six  or  seven  hundred  millions,  the 
whole  falling  on  the  back  of  labor,  'while  a  large  amount  would  go  into 
the  pockets  of  those  who  struck  not  a  blow!'  This  was  the  cost  of  war. 
The  War  Hawk  of  1812  had  indeed  learned  a  lesson. 

Talk  of  States'  Rights  would  be  ended,  he  warned  his  Southern  listen- 
ers, and  of  a  Federal  Republic.  Modern  war  required  a  consolidation  of 
powers.  We  would  become  'a  great  national,  consolidated  Government 
...  a  military  despotism.' 

But  there  need  be  no  war.  The  question  could  still  be  compromised,  and 
on  the  basis  of  the  forty-ninth  parallel.  North  of  there,  none  of  our  citizens 
were  settled.  Morally  we  had  no  right  to  more.  Establish  that  line,  and 
we  'give  our  citizens  in  Oregon  peace  and  security.' 

A  new  note  sounded  in  his  voice.  He  was  not  speaking  of  Oregon  now, 
but  of  'one  world,'  a  world  as  yet  unborn.  'Chemical  and  mechanical  dis- 
coveries and  inventions  have  multiplied  beyond  all  former  example — add- 


XXV  A  NATION-SIZED  AMERICAN  437 

ing  to  the  comforts  of  life  in  a  degree  far  greater  and  more  universal 
than  was  ever  known  before.'  Steam  has  'reduced  the  Atlantic  to  half  its 
former  width/  Electricity  'has  been  made  the  instrument  for  the  trans- 
mission of  thought  by  lightning  itself.  Magic  wires  are  stretching  them- 
selves in  all  directions  over  the  earth,  and  when  their  mystic  meshes  shall 
have  been  united  .  .  .  our  globe  itself  will  become  endowed  with  sensitive- 
ness— so  that  whatever  touches  on  any  point,  will  be  instantly  felt  on  any 
other.'  On  the  horizon  of  the  world  was  'the  dawn  of  a  new  civilization.' 
Would  the  two  powers,  farthest  in  advance  in  this  great  world  movement, 
'sacrifice  their  mission  to  fulfill  God's  destiny,'  in  a  senseless  struggle  to 
determine  their  military  superiority?  No,  Calhoun  declared.  'Powerful 
causes'  were  already  in  operation  'to  secure  a  lasting  .  .  .  peace  between 
the  two  countries  by  breaking  down  the  barriers  which  impede  their  com- 
merce. .  .  .  Free  trade  between  England  and  America  would  force  all 
other  civilized  countries  to  follow  in  the  end.'  With  a  blinding  flash  of 
insight  into  the  economic  selfishness  that  would  foster  wars  upon  wars 
years  after  his  own  hopes  and  forebodings  had  ended  forever,  Calhoun 
presented  the  practical  program  that  could  make  'One  World'  more  than 
an  ideal.  Free  trade  'would  .  .  .  diffuse  a  prosperity  greater  and  more 
universal  than  can  well  be  conceived  and  .  .  .  unite  by  bonds  of  mutual 
interest  the  people  of  all  countries.  I  regard  .  .  .  free  trade  ...  in  the 
dispensation  of  Providence  as  one  of  the  great  means  of  ushering  in  the 
happy  period  foretold  by  inspired  prophets  when  war  would  be  no  more,'  3* 

He  sat  down.  It  was  all  over.  Had  he  failed?  The  faces,  swarming  about 
him,  hands  grasping,  seizing,  pulling  his  own,  congratulations  from  even 
'the  most  violent  of  the  54:40  men'  gave  him  his  answer.  For  the  practical 
result  of  his  efforts,  he  would  have  to  wait  weeks,  months  perhaps,  but 
the  human  triumph  was  sweet.  In  this  triumph  of  sheer  patriotism,  freed 
from  the  sectional  bias  which  had  necessarily  dominated  so  much  of  his 
thinking,  he  had  reached  the  pinnacle  of  his  career. 

One  man  did  not  approach  his  side.  Such  a  concession  for  his  touchy 
South  Carolina  pride  would  have  been  too  much  to  endure.  Instead,  Wil- 
liam Preston,  who  had  succeeded  McDuffie  in  the  Senate,  but  had  not 
been  on  speaking  terms  with  his  colleague  since  Sub-Treasury  days,  rushed 
into  the  House  Chamber  and  up  to  Representative  Holmes  of  Massa- 
chusetts, declaring:  *I  must  give  vent  to  my  feelings.  Mr.  Calhoun  has 
made  a  speech  which  has  settled  the  question  of  the  North  Western 
boundary.  All  his  friends — nay,  all  the  Senators  have  collected  around  to 
congratulate  him  ...  he  has  covered  himself  with  a  mantle  of  glory.' 37 

It  would  have  been  asking  too  much  of  Mr.  Polk  to  have  expected  him 
to  admit  the  need  of  any  door  being  open  for  him.  For  the  man  who 
had  openly  and  unfortunately  declared  that  'no  compromise  which  the 
United  States  ought  to  accept  can  be  effected,'38  surrender  now  would 
have  been  a  surrender  of  face.  'He  has  embarrassed  the  Administration  on 


438  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

the  Oregon  question/  wrote  Polk  of  Calhoun.  He  wanted  to  be  President. 
He  wanted  to  be  in  the  Cabinet*  Thwarted,  he  sought  now  only  to  unite 
'the  Calhoun  faction'  with  the  Whigs,  to  divert  and  control  the  Ad- 
ministration from  the  outside,  if  he  could  not  do  so  from  within,  reasoned 
Polk. 

Once  again  Calhoun  was  summoned  to  the  White  House.  This  was  an 
interview  even  more  delicate  than  the  one  before.  'In  a  fine  humour/  Cal- 
houn met  the  occasion  head-on.  No  more  ticklish  problem  had  ever  teased 
his  diplomacy:  this  need  to  offer  the  President  aid  without  admitting  the 
need  for  aid,  to  show  his  superior  voting  strength  and  yet  retain  the 
semblances  of  Administration  friendship.  He  sparred  carefully,  assuring 
Polk  of  his  'desire  to  assert  our  rights'  in  the  Oregon  territory,  not  linger- 
ing to  dispute  over  just  what  his  and  Folk's  diverse  conceptions  of  'rights' 
might  be.  He  spoke  of  restraint  and  peace,  but  between  him  and  Polk, 
at  least,  peace  was  tenuous,  and  when  the  guest  left,  Polk  was  con- 
vinced of  his  opposition  to  him.  It  did  not  matter.  Calhoun  had  won,  and 
Polk  knew  that  he  had.3* 


14 

In  Calhoun's  opinion,  Polk  accepted  defeat  with  no  particular  grace.  'The 
Oregon  question/  Calhoun  wrote  Clemson,  by  April  25,  1846,  'will  ere 
long  be  settled,  and  war  avoided.  .  .  .  This  great  change  has  been  ef- 
fected by  the  Senate  against  the  entire  influence  of  the  Executive.'  *° 

Thereafter  all  happened  according  to  Calhoun's  plans  and  forecast.  On 
April  27,  Congress  passed  a  resolution  empowering  the  President  to  'give 
notice'  at  his  discretion.  Notice  was  given  on  May  21,  accompanied,  as 
Calhoun  had  hoped,  by  Folk's  own  offer  of  the  forty-ninth  parallel  as  a 
basis  for  settlement. 

Lord  Pakenham's  prompt  refusal  did  nothing  to  weaken  the  confidence 
of  Calhoun.  British  pride  must  be  salvaged — but  British  public  opinion 
would  demand  a  settlement.  Lord  Aberdeen's  instructions  from  London 
climaxed  the  issue.  Six  months  after  Calhoun's  preliminary  resolutions  of 
December  30,  1845,  the  Senate  belatedly  agreed  with  him  and  with  Great 
Britain  that  the  forty-ninth  parallel  did  not  'abandon  the  honor,  the 
character,  or  the  best  interests  of  the  American  people.'  Senate  approval 
of  a  British  treaty  was  voted  41  to  14.  And  nationally  Calhoun  had  never 
performed  a  greater  service  for  his  country.41 

He  gave  way  to  his  pleasure  and  pride  in  a  letter  to  Clemson.  'It  is  to 
me  a  great  triumph.  When  I  arrived  here,  it  was  dangerous  to  wisper  49, 
and  I  thought  to  have  taken  a  hazardous  step  in  asserting  that  Mr.  Polk 
had  not  disgraced  the  country  in  offering  it.  Now  a  treaty  is  made  on  it 
with  nearly  the  unanimous  voice  of  the  Country.3  42  But  he  received  with 


XXV  A  NATION-SIZED  AMERICAN  439 

due  modesty  the  tribute  of  a  British  visitor  that  'You  are  very  dear  to 
England  for  the  sake  of  this  peace  and  free  trade.'  Calhoun  was  surprised. 
'I  did  not  think  my  name  was  even  known  in  England,  where  I  myself 
have  never  been.'  He  added:  'The  British  government  has  exhibited  the 
greatest  wisdom.  .  .  .  Matters  could  not  have  been  arranged,  had  there 
been  exasperation.' 4S 

Observers  noted  that  there  was  no  personal  exaltation  in  his  look,  no 
triumph  in  his  words.  He  seemed  abstracted,  absorbed  with  the  problems 
that  confronted  him.  He  had  indeed  much  upon  his  mind.  Momentarily  he 
had  been  triumphant  that  spring;  he  had  been  happy;  he  had  even  dared 
hope  for  a  few  brief  days  that  his  life's  work,  his  life's  ambitions,  were 
nearing  realization.  Goal  after  goal  that  he  had  striven  for — tariff,  Sub- 
Treasury  'publick  lands,'  and,  most  important  of  all,  the  growing  unifica- 
tion of  South  and  West— ' All  the  great  measures  I  have  advocated,'  he 
wrote  James  Edward,  'are  in  a  fair  way  of  being  consummated.'  **  For  the 
first  time  in  years,  he  had  looked  forward  to  the  future;  he  had  even 
dared  hope  that  for  now  and  for  all  time  the  Union  might  be  pre- 
served .  .  . 


15 

But  by  the  summer  of  1846  it  was  all  over. 

Six  months  earlier,  in  January,  with  war  or  peace  trembling  in  the 
scales  of  the  Oregon  negotiations,  John  M.  Clayton  of  Delaware  ap- 
proached the  South  Carolinian.  Had  Mr.  Calhoun  heard?  Polk  had  or- 
dered General  Zachary  Taylor  to  the  Rio  Grande.  That  meant  war  with 
Mexico! 

Calhoun  stood,  transfixed  with  horror.  'It  can't  be;  it's  impossible,'  he 
had  exclaimed.  The  Rio  Grande?  As  Secretary  of  State,  Calhoun,  fighting 
for  every  foot  of  territory  America  could  rightfully  daim,  had  never 
dreamed  of  demanding  the  Rio  Grande  boundary.  The  river  was  nearly 
a  hundred  miles  from  any  territory  which  America  could  justly  claim. 

Calhoun  understood  this  plot.  During  the  discussions  for  the  annexation 
of  Texas  he  had  promised  Mexico  an  honest  negotiation — on  the  'most 
liberal  and  satisfactory  terms  .  .  „'  on  'all  questions  which  may  grow  out  of 
this  treaty.'  According  to  Mr.  Polk,  'liberal'  terms  granted  every  foot  of  the 
disputed  territory  to  Texas;  and  further,  for  the  prevention  of  any  future 
conflict,  Mexico  must  sell  New  Mexico  and  California  to  the  United  States. 
Refused,  Polk  was  trying  to  force  the  sale,  and  had  chosen  the  advance  to 
the  Rio  Grande  to  overawe  Mexico  by  show,  or  to  conquer  her  by  force. 
The  audacity  of  the  scheme  swept  over  Calhoun. 

'The  Senate  should  move  a  restraining  resolution  against  the  President/ 
he  said. 


440  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 

'Do  something,'  urged  Clayton.45 

Calhoun  shook  his  head.  His  position  on  the  Oregon  question  prevented 
him.  War  with  England  would  be  worse  than  war  with  Mexico,  and  if 
war  with  England  were  to  be  prevented  and  Oregon  added  to  the  Union, 
he  must  maintain  relations  with  the  Administration.  He  could  not  antago- 
nize Polk  further.  Calhoun's  'error'  of  judgment  has  been  condemned  here; 
for  it  has  been  claimed  that  Polk  must  have  known  that  England  would 
compromise  on  Oregon  before  he  would  have  dared  provoke  Mexico.46  Yet 
Calhoun  contended  that  had  'the  British  proposition  been  delayed  5  days, 
until  the  news  of  our  declaration  of  war  against  Mexico  had  arrived,  the 
Settlement  would  not  have  been  made/  *7 

It  was  for  'others'  to  lead  the  battle  against  Polk,  Calhoun  contended; 
although  'others'  had  no  intention  of  doing  so.  Behind  the  scenes  that 
spring,  amidst  rumors  of  a  naval  seizure  of  California,  Calhoun  worked 
feverishly,  but  to  no  avail.  On  Saturday,  the  ninth  of  May,  came  the  news 
that  the  President  had  been  waiting  for.  American  and  Mexican  troops 
had  skirmished  on  the  eastern  bank  of  the  Rio  Grande,  and,  according 
to  Mr.  Polk,  'war  exists  .  .  .  notwithstanding  all  our  efforts  to  avoid 
it  ...  by  the  act  of  Mexico  herself.'  ** 


16 

All  day  Sunday,  May  10,  1846,  Calhoun  was  hard  at  work,  going  to  the 
lodgings  of  friend  after  friend,  begging  them  to  get  ready,  to  stand  by. 
There  must  not  be  war.  There  could  not  be  war.  War  would  mean  the  in- 
tervention of  England  and  of  Europe,  perhaps  the  loss  of  the  entire  Oregon 
country.  War  should  not  be  waged  for  territory,  but  for  honor,  persisted 
Calhoun,  forgetful  of  his  own  highly  colored  dreams  of  Canada,  thirty- 
odd  years  before.  The  ground  to  be  taken,  he  told  his  friends,  was  a  com- 
plete separation  of  the  necessary  defense  supplies  from  any  actual  declara- 
tion of  war.  A  border  incident  was  not  a  war.  Supplies  could  be  voted 
to  the  Army  without  a  declaration  of  war.  Time  was  short,  but  negotia- 
tions were  still  possible. 

All  too  quickly  the  night  passed.  Monday  morning,  before  packed 
Houses  of  Congress,  the  President's  words  were  read.  Calhoun  sat  in  a 
mounting  sickness  of  despair  as  the  clerk's  voice  rang  out  the  Presidential 
call  to  repel  invasion,  'to  avenge  the  honor  of  the  United  States  Army.' 
The  President  had  done  his  work;  over  in  the  House,  amidst  a  storm  of 
confusion,  Southerners  and  Northerners  alike,  unable  to  disentangle  de- 
fense from  war,  brushed  aside  Calhoun's  pleading,  reasoned  words  of  the 
night  before,  and  voted  for  a  declaration  of  war. 

In  the  Senate  for  a  few  moments,  Calhoun  and  his  supporters  held  the 
upper  hand.  They  divided  the  Administration  bill,  sending  the  sections 


XXV          A  NATION-SIZED  AMERICAN  441 

on  military  preparation  to  the  Military  ASairs  Committee,  and  the  declara- 
tion of  war  to  the  Committee  on  Foreign  Affairs.  Then  there  was  noth- 
ing to  do  but  wait.  At  last  Thomas  Hart  Benton  arose,  walked  out  of  the 
Chamber  in  the  direction  of  the  Military  Affairs  Committee  room.  A 
few  minutes  later  he  returned,  a  slip  of  paper  in  his  hand.  It  was  the  bill 
of  the  House  of  Representatives,  and  it  called  'for  a  declaration  of  war.' 

Hopelessly  Calhoun  rose  to  his  feet.  His  eyes  swept  the  Chamber.  He 
received  not  a  look  of  encouragement.  The  story  on  almost  every  face 
was  the  same — impatience,  eagerness,  excitement,  anger.  It  was  too  late. 
But  he  knew  what  he  had  to  say. 

If  Congress  would  wait  only  a  few  hours — a  single  day  ...  if  it  would 
move  'dispassionately,  quietly,  and  with  calm  dignity.'  He  might  as  well 
have  tried  to  hold  back  a  hurricane.  He  was  shouted  down;  he  only 
wanted  delay,  they  accused.  'I  seek  no  delay,'  Calhoun  retorted.  He  would 
vote  instantly  for  the  necessary  military  supplies  if  they  were  only  sep- 
arated from  a  declaration  of  war.  But  he  could  not  vote  for  war.  Only 
Congress  could  make  war.  Not  the  President  of  the  United  States!  It 
would  set  a  precedent,  he  prophesied,  which  would  'enable  all  future 
Presidents  to  bring  about  a  state  of  things  in  which  Congress  shall  be 
forced  ...  to  declare  war/  49  however  opposed  to  its  own  conviction.  It 
would  divert  the  warmaking  power  from  Congress  to  the  President.  'The 
doctrine  is  monstrous.' 

A  vote  for  war  against  Mexico  would  be  a  vote  for  war  upon  the  Amer- 
ican Constitution.  A  mere  border  brawl,  unauthorized  by  either  govern- 
ment, was  no  cause  for  war.  'I  cannot  do  it,'  shouted  Calhoun.  'I  know  not 
whether  there  is  a  friend  to  stand  by  me.'  His  whole  body  trembling,  his 
eyes  burning,  he  crashed  his  white,  skeleton-like  hand  against  the  top  of 
his  desk  with  such  violence  that  from  all  corners  of  the  room  men  looked 
to  see  if  it  had  been  shattered  by  the  blow.  'Sooner  than  vote  for  that 
lying  preamble,'  he  shouted,  'I  would  plunge  a  dagger  through  my  heart.' w 


17 

Calhoun's  passionate  outburst  stopped  nothing  and  no  one  but  himself. 
The  country  was  at  war  within  ten  minutes  after  he  had  dropped  into  his 
chair.  But  his  words  had  broken  like  thunderclaps  over  the  heads  of  the 
Southern  leaders.  Virtually  all  of  them— Lewis,  McDuffie,  young  Jefferson 
Davis — all  were  for  war.  Before  Calhoun  had  risen,  he  had  been  his  sec- 
tion's 'idol,'  and  nationally  his  position  was  strong.  The  winning  of  Oregon 
for  the  North  and  Texas  for  the  South,  his  wooing  of  the  West  with  his 
stand  at  Memphis,  the  preservation  of  peace  with  England — all  had  lifted 
him  once  more  to  his  old  eminence.  Probably  he  could  never  have  been 
President,  as  he  must  have  known,  but  certainly  he  stood  nearer  the  goal 


442  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 

than  he  had  in  the  past  twenty  years.  This  was  the  man  whom  even  the 
New  York  Journal  could  hail  as  the  'Saviour  of  his  country/  declaring 
that  he  needed  only  to  stand  still,  and  'as  sure  as  the  day  comes  .  .  .  will 
'49  see  him  where  his  deserts  long  since  should  have  placed  him/ 51 

And  now — his  worst  enemies  saw  that  this  was  no  ruse;  Ms  terrible 
sincerity  was  evident  to  the  most  casual  observer.  Deliberately  he  was 
throwing  away  the  Presidency,  it  was  generally  believed,  and  for  what? 
The  cause  was  lost  before  it  was  voiced;  why  lose  himself  with  it?  And  it 
was  the  South,  that  same  South  which  he  had  offended  at  Memphis  and 
with  his  drive  for  Oregon,  the  South  which  had  loyally  stood  by  him,  that 
he  had  now  grievously  wounded.  Could  he  not  see  what  he  had  done? 
Could  he  not  see  the  rich  fruit  that  was  hanging  over  the  Southern  states, 
an  empire  for  slavery?  Could  he  not  see  that  all  Mexico  was  below  the 
Missouri  Compromise  line,  that  the  old  balance  of  power  would  be  settled 
forever — and  in  the  South's  favor?  It  was  the  South  that  he  had  offended; 
the  South  would  not  support  him  now. 

All  over  the  South  the  clamor  broke  out.  Even  the  Edgefield  Advertiser, 
in  that  tense-strung  June  of  1846,  warned  that  'beloved  as  Mr.  Calhoun 
was'  he  could  not  'hold  his  people's  affections,  unless  he  supported  the 
war/  He,  of  course,  had  no  intention  of  doing  anything  else.  'Now  that 
we  are  in  ...  we  shall  do  our  duty/  he  wrote  Conner.  'I  give  it  a  quiet 
but  decided  support.3  The  problem  was  how  to  bring  it  to  'an  honorable 
termination.'  The  Presidential  question?  'It  ought  to  be  wholly  dropt.' 

Conditioned  though  he  was  to  years  of  public  abuse,  the  attacks  from 
his  own  'kingdom'  hurt  him.  Keenly  painful  was  the  betrayal  of  his  own 
cousin,  Francis  Pickens,  who  delivered  a  searing  attack  on  Calhoun's  war 
course  as  'wanting  in  fidelity  to  the  country.5  But  Pickens  was  not  South 
Carolina,  and  in  Edgefield  resolutions  implying  condemnation  of  Cal- 
houn's  stand  were  'laid  on  the  table  by  a  unanimous  vote'  almost  as  soon 
as  introduced.  'South  Carolina  never  speaks  until  Mr.  Calhoun  is  heard' 
was  the  rebuke  of  the  Charleston  Courier.  The  loyal  Mercury,  not  only 
gave  whole-hearted  support  to  Calhoun's  stand  for  a  defensive  war,  but 
printed  in  full  a  Pennsylvania's  justification  of  the  Southern  leader 
against  the  attacks  of  the  Northern  press.  'Mr.  Calhoun  has  followed 
more  closely  in  the  footsteps  of  the  immortal  Jefferson  than  any  of  the 
living  Statesmen.' w 

And  on  that  war-heated  Fourth  of  July,  with  blood  high  and  bluster 
loud,  all  over  South  Carolina,  between  the  customary  tributes  to  'woman/ 
'the  flag/  'the  memories'  of  Washington,  Jefferson,  and  even  Jackson,  Cal- 
houn was  still  the  favorite  toast  of  state-wide  celebrations.  He  was  the 
'favorite  son  of  South  Carolina/  'the  Statesman  that  weathered  the  storm/ 
He  was  'the  pride  of  his  State/  his  'Country's  Pilot/  'surpassed  by  none/ 
and  'too  profound  to  be  appreciated.'  There  was  praise  even  for  his  stand 
on  the  war,  and  for  the  Oregon  settlement,  'another  link  of  the  chain 


XXV  A  NATION-SIZED  AMERICAN  443 

which  should  bind  him  to  his  country.'  His  slanderers?  They  were  'asses 
and  owls.' 

But  all  this  was  small  comfort  to  Calhoun.  South  Carolina's  tributes 
were  to  him  as  a  man,  beloved  in  spite  of  his  stand,  and  not  because  of  it. 
He  knew  the  truth.  He  knew  the  temper  of  the  Southern  people.  South 
Carolina  was  burning  with  the  fever  of  war.  If  on  one  page  of  the  Mercury 
he  could  find  praise  for  the  courage  of  his  stand,  on  another  was  the  story 
of  the  ladies  of  Charleston  spurring  their  young  men  on  to  'punish  the  out- 
rage/ with  a  banner  for  the  'Avengers,'  on  which  'Blood  for  Blood'  had 
been  stitched  by  their  own  dainty  hands.53 

'The  military  feeling  of  the  country  is  ....  very  high/  Calhoun  wrote 
Clemson.  'The  people  are  like  a  young  man  .  .  .  full  of  health  and  vigor, 
and  disposed  for  adventure  .  *  .  but  wanting  wisdom.  .  .  .  While  I  ad- 
mire the  spirit,  I  regret  to  see  it  misdirected.'  To  his  son,  Andrew,  he  wrote 
more  openly,  hinting  at  his  fear  of  European  intervention,  his  nervous 
handwriting  clearly  betraying  agitation  and  strain.  'Never  was  so  mo- 
mentous a  measure  adopted  with  so  little  thought.'  If  not  quickly  ended, 
the  war  would  be  a  disaster.54 


18 

His  dismay  was  twofold.  The  war  in  itself  was  enough;  a  ruthless,  heart- 
less grab  for  territory,  under  the  flimsiest  pretext  of  defense  against  inva- 
sion; but  that  was  not  all.  Too  well  did  Calhoun  know  the  young  hot 
South.  Already  in  his  possession  was  a  secret  oath,  sworn  by  volunteers  all 
over  the  South  and  Southwest,  who  for  years  had  been  pledging  them- 
selves to  enlist  as  soldiers  in  a  plot  for  the  annexation  and  'conquest  of 
Mexico.'  Calhoun's  private  belief  was  that,  if  conquered,  Mexico  might 
even  be  held  by  the  United  States  'as  an  independent  country.'  'Keep 
this  to  yourself,'  he  wrote  Andrew.  *I  have  never  whispered  it  to  any- 
one.' 55  This,  perhaps,  would  be  the  nucleus  of  a  Southern  Confederacy, 
but  such  a  misbegotten  monstrosity  would  have  no  support  from  John 
C.  Calhoun. 

Of  one  outcome  he  was  certain.  Mexico  annexed  would  mean  the  de- 
struction of  the  Union.  Mexico  was  the  'forbidden  fruit.'  Shortsighted 
on  the  slavery  question  in  general  Calhoun  undoubtedly  was,  but  in  this 
one  aspect  he  penetrated  the  future  with  terrible  accuracy.  If  he  knew 
the  temper  of  the  South,  that  young  South  which  had  surged  beyond 
him,  so,  too,  did  he  know  the  determination  of  the  North.  Since  the 
annexation  of  Texas,  he  had  well  known,  the  last  piece  of  admittedly  slave 
territory  had  been  added  to  American  soil.  Northern  public  opinion  would 
never  permit  it  otherwise.  Nor  was  more  necessary.  It  was  understood 
that  Texas  would  be  divided  into  four  to  six  slave  states.  Even  with 


444  JOHN    C.    CALHOUN 

Oregon  open  to  the  North,  the  South's  interests  were  protected  by  the 
line  of  the  Missouri  Compromise. 

The  balance  of  power  was  close,  but  safe.  Calhoun  was  frank  enough 
in  admitting  his  belief  that,  although  the  institutions  of  the  South  could 
be  preserved,  they  could  never  be  extended.  The  South's  genius,  he  con- 
tended, was  not  in  further  expansion  but  in  the  development  and  strength- 
ening of  her  own  landed  society.56 

And  now!  Now  that  hard-won  margin  of  safety  that  he  had  gained  over 
the  cries  of  'slave-accursed  Texas/  with  the  give-and-take  of  the  diplo- 
matic tables,  was  to  be  offered  up  as  a  sacrifice  to  a  gigantic  theft.  Not 
content  with  security,  the  South  wanted  all — and  would  lose  all.  Calhoun 
could  not  read  the  future,  nor  did  he  care  to  do  so.  He  shrank  from  it. 
Yet  he  has  been  called  'the  one  man  in  the  country'  during  those  wild 
hours  'who  understood  what  was  going  on.'  Here  was  the  end  of  constitu- 
tional rights  and  protected  minorities.  A  territory  would  be  won  which 
the  North  would  never  see  slave  and  the  South  would  never  see  free. 
Disunion  or  submission  would  be  the  South's  alternatives.  The  outcome 
no  man  could  see.  'The  curtain  is  dropt,'  Calhoun  said,  'and  the  future 
closed  to  our  view.7  5T 


XXVI 
The  Rising  Storm 


NEVER  had  Calhoun  been  more  despondent  than  when  he  returned  to  the 
capital  in  the  winter  of  1846.  For  the  first  time  in  his  long  career  he,  who 
for  a  generation  had  battled  against  all  odds  and  against  all  hopes,  now 
seemed  'stricken  with  terror,  almost  with  despair.'  So  long  as  any  door 
was  open  to  him,  so  long  as  any  action  of  his  could  stave  off  disaster,  he 
would  seize  at  the  weakest  straw  held  out  to  him.  Now  it  was  over.  It  was 
the  end  of  the  truce,  the  gentlemen's  agreement,  by  which  North  and 
South  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  through  a  geographic  line,  had  held  in 
check  a  principle.  The  curtain  had  lifted,  and  even  he  shrank  from  what 
he  saw  behind  it. 

For  in  the  hot  summer  of  1846  a  Pennsylvania  Democrat,  blond,  boyish 
of  face,  precise  of  diction,  had  arisen  in  the  House  of  Representatives. 
His  name  was  David  Wilmot,  and  the  Proviso  that  he  introduced  de- 
manded without  equivocation  that  slavery  should  never  be  permitted  in 
any  territory  to  be  won  in  the  Mexican  War. 

The  oil  was  on  the  flames.  The  warfare  was  in  the  open;  step  by  step, 
battle  by  battle,  a  contest  North  and  South  for  every  inch  and  every  foot 
of  new  American  soil. 

The  Proviso  passed  the  House,  but  was  defeated  in  the  Senate.  It  was 
not  defeated,  however,  in  the  country.  It  was  fought  and  rehashed  and 
wrangled  over  in  every  store  and  polling  booth  and  newspaper  in  America, 
at  every  fireside  and  every  political  gathering.  It  bred  a  'rancorous  bit- 
terness.' To  the  North  the  Wilmot  Proviso  became  the  sole  objective  of 
the  Mexican  War.  To  the  South  it  was  the  'reddest  flag  that  could  have 
been  waved  in  the  face  of  the  Southern  bull/ * 

To  Calhoun  it  was  the  end. 

It  was  the  death-knell  of  the  Union;  it  was  'abolition  in  a  new  and 
dangerous  form.'  That  the  Proviso  had  been  technically  'killed5  meant 
nothing.  The  challenge  to  the  South  had  been  thrown  down.  As  'all  the 
North/  Calhoun  perceived,  'is  opposed  to  our  having  any  part  of  Mexico/ 
some  other  way  would  be  found. 

The  present  Scheme  of  the  North/  wrote  the  bitter  Carolinian,  'is  that 
the  South  shall  do  all  the  fighting  and  pay  all  the  expenses,  and  they  to 
have  all  the  conquered  territory.'  Both  Northern  parties  were  determined 


446  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

cthat  no  part  of  the  Territory  .  .  .  shall  be  for  the  benefit  of  the  South/ 
but  were  perfectly  willing  'that  our  blood  and  treasure  shall  be  expended. 
...  We  are  to  be  made  to  dig  our  own  grave.' 2 

The  damage  was  done  now,  and  Calhoun  would  throw  his  last  strength 
into  a  battle  for  his  own.  Would  Southern  men  stand  by  and  see  the 
mighty  empire  they  had  won  revert  to  the  North,  a  weapon  for  their  own 
destruction?  They  would  not,  and  neither  would  he.  The  invasion  of  Mex- 
ico had  been  a  great  wrong,  a  wrong  precipitated,  he  knew,  by  Southern 
arrogance  and  Southern  ambition,  but  by  all  laws  of  justice  in  national 
dealings,  the  South  had  at  least  equal  rights  in  the  conquered  territory. 

It  was,  he  insisted,  a  question  of  right  and  wrong.  Could  a  majority  of 
partners  exclude  the  minority?  'Can  that  be  right  in  Government,  which 
every  right-minded  man  would  cry  out  to  be  base  and  dishonest  in  private 
life?  .  .  .  Would  it  deserve  the  name  of  free  soil,  if  one  half  of  the  Union 
should  be  excluded  when  it  was  won  by  joint  efforts?'  These,  he  admitted, 
'are  questions  which  address  themselves  more  to  the  heart  than  to  the 
head/8 

Calhoun  had  longed  not  to  return  to  Washington  that  winter.  He  was 
desperately  tired.  Has  cough  was  wearing  at  him  night  and  day,  and  al- 
though, as  yet,  he  had  no  'bad  symptoms/  such  as  fever,  night  sweats, 
or  pain  in  the  chest,  he  knew  perfectly  well  what  was  wrong  with  him.* 
Only  rest  and  freedom  from  strain  could  check  the  progress  of  his  disease, 
but  he  knew  that  there  would  never  be  rest  for  him  again  in  this  world. 
Almost  his  only  respite  came  in  moments  when  he  could  read  a  few  strag- 
gling sentences  in  seven-year-old  Calhoun  Clemson's  childish  scrawl,  and 
write  in  answer:  'My  dear  Grandson,  Your  letter  made  your  Grandfather 
very  happy.  He  was  happy  to  hear  from  you;  happy  to  learn  that  you  are 
well,  and  to  see  that  you  could  write  so  pretty  a  letter.'  He  sent  it  to 
'Grandmother  in  South  Carolina,  that  she  might  be  made  happy  too  by 
reading  it.' 5 

'Everyone  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic/  wrote  Anna  Maria  from  Belgium, 
'seems  to  look  to  you  to  elevate  the  country  out  of  the  mire.  ...  Do  try 
to  keep  Polk  and  Co.  in  order  for  the  rest  of  the  4  years.5  6 

Yet  he  had  nothing  to  offer.  What  had  to  be  done  was  plain;  he  told 
Anna  Maria  that  the  territorial  scheme  of  the  North  must  be  defeated, 
'even  should  the  Union  be  rent  asunder.'  As  for  himself,  'I  desire  above 
all  things  to  save  the  whole;  but  if  that  cannot  be,  to  save  the  portion 
where  Providence  has  cast  my  lot.' 7 

But  how?  'I  confess/  he  would  admit,  'I  do  not  see  the  end.'8 


Like  Lee,  Calhoun  might  well  have  said  that  duty  was  the  most  beautiful 
word  in  the  English  language;  what  he  did  say  was  that  he  would  do 


XXVI          THE  RISING  STORM  447 

his  'duty,  without  regard  to  consequences  personal  to  myself.  If  our 
institutions  are  to  be  overthrown,  I  am  resolved,  that  no  share  of  the 
responsibility  shall  rest  on  me/  He  was  glad  that  he  would  not  live  to 
see  the  outcome,  glad  that  he  was  'an  old  and  broken  man.'  But  only  to 
Anna  Maria  would  he  reveal  the  depths  of  his  despair.  'You  must  not  sup- 
pose that  ...  I  am  impelled  by  the  hope  of  success.  Had  that  been  the 
case,  I  would  long  since  have  retired  from  the  conflict.  Far  higher  motives 
impel  me;  a  sense  of  duty; — to  do  our  best  for  our  country,  and  leave  the 
rest  to  Providence.'  For  posterity's  opinion  he  cared  little.  He  saw  no 
reason  why  it  should  be  wiser  than  the  past.  'In  resisting  wrong,  especially 
where  our  country  is  concerned,'  he  told  his  daughter,  'no  appreciation 
of  my  efforts  is  necessary  to  sustain  me.* 

To  Calhoun  the  fear  of  enforced  abolition  or  emancipation  was  now 
becoming  overwhelmingly  real.  It  would  come,  as  he  pointed  out,  'in  the 
worst  possible  form;  far  worse  than  if  done  by  our  own  act  voluntarily.' 9 
Fifteen  or  twenty  years  earlier,  gradual  emancipation  might  conceivably 
have  been  possible  as  an  act  of  the  South  itself,  involving  no  loss,  of  posi- 
tion; but  this  neither  Calhoun  nor  any  of  the  foremost  Southern  leaders 
of  that  day  had  had  the  wisdom  to  see.  The  younger  and  more  resilient 
Davis  saw  it;  as  late  as  1846  he  declared  in  the  Senate  that  the  problem 
was  'one  which  must  bring  its  own  solution.  Leave  natural  causes  to  their 
full  effect,  and  when  the  time  shall  arrive  at  which  emancipation  is  proper, 
those  most  interested  will  be  most  anxious  to  effect  it.  ...  Leave  the 
country  to  the  South  and  West  open';  the  slaves  pressed  by  a  cheaper 
labor  would  spread  to  the  tropic  regions  (to  be  gained  by  the  Mexican 
War),  'where  less  exertion  .  .  .  will  enable, .  *  .  them  to  live  in  inde- 
pendent communities.'  However,  Davis  warned,  'They  must  first  be  sep- 
arated from  the  white  man,  be  ...  elevated  by  instruction;  or,  instead 
of  a  blessing,  liberty  would  be  their  greatest  curse.' 10 


Undoubtedly  Calhoun  was  right  in  his  conviction  that  it  was  too  late  to 
back-track  now.  Forcibly  to  destroy  slavery  was  to  destroy  the  political 
power  and  the  economic  and  social  foundations  of  a  whole  people.  Whether 
or  not  slavery  was  essential  to  the  South,  it  was  essential  to  the  South  to 
have  the  power  to  maintain  slavery.  If  the  North  could  control  the  one, 
she  could  control  all.  This  was  the  issue,  the  tragedy,  that  slavery  had 
become  the  proving  ground  of  the  South's  fight  to  maintain  her  rights  as 
a  minority  within  the  Union. 

It  was  the  Mexican  War,  of  course,  that  in  1846  commanded  Cal- 
houn's  immediate  attention.  The  implications  of  the  Wilmot  Proviso  had 
turned  the  taste  of  the  conflict  bitter  upon  Southern  lips.  Now,  too  late, 
Southern  politicians  realized  how  terribly  right  their  leader  had  beea 


448  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

when  he  had  stood  out  against  the  conflict.  President  Folk's  hasty  attempts 
to  end  the  struggle  by  an  abortive  offer  of  three  million  dollars  in  payment 
to  Mexico,  for  lands  that  the  American  forces  would  otherwise  overrun, 
further  stamped  the  struggle  as  a  Southern  imperialistic  venture.  No  one 
in  the  North  desired  that  blood  be  shed  for  a  Southern  slave  empire;  nor 
did  the  more  temperate  public  opinion  of  either  section  wish  the  brawling 
slave  question  to  be  thrust  forward  again. 

To  North  and  South  alike,  the  war  had  become,  in  Calhoun's  words, 
'embarrassing';  the  difficulty  now  was  how  to  get  out  of  it  with  American 
honor  unimpaired  and  American  territorial  ambitions  secured.  Calhoun, 
on  the  twentieth  of  January,  1847,  observed:  'All  now  acknowledge  the 
war's  folly.  ...  I  never  stood  higher  or  stronger  than  I  now  do.' "• 

His  analysis  was  overoptimistic.  A  few  farsighted  individuals  had  per- 
ceived the  tragedy  from  the  first;  Webster,  who  was  to  lose  a  son  in  the 
holocaust,  would  have  cast  a  negative  vote  had  he  been  in  Washington  at 
the  time  of  the  declaration  of  war.  From  Lexington,  Kentucky,  Henry  Clay 
challenged  Folk's  declaration,  that  war  exists  by  the  act  of  Mexico,  as 
'palpable  falsehood.' u  Nevertheless,  a  young  Whig  Representative  who 
dared  two  weeks  after  his  entry  to  Congress  to  offer  a  series  of  so-called 
'Spot  Resolutions'  in  'opposition  to  his  own  government,'  was  hailed  as 
the  'Benedict  Arnold'  of  his  district!  His  charges  were  that  Folk's  claims 
to  the  disputed  territory  were  'the  sheerest  deception';  that  the  American 
boundary  was  not  at  the  Rio  Grande,  and  that  the  only  citizens  whose 
blood  was  shed  were  soldiers  advancing  into  disputed  territory.  Con- 
demned as  'base,  dastardly,  and  treasonable,' "  Abraham  Lincoln  heard  his 
law  partner's  warning  that  his  career  was  at  an  end. 


Amidst  the  cries  for  conquest  and  vengeance  of  these  years,  Calhoun's 
was  the  voice  of  justice  and  restraint.  In  a  series  of  moderate  and  'states- 
manlike' speeches  during  the  winters  of  1847  and  1848,*  futilely  he  voiced 
the  plea  that  America  never  take  'one  foot  of  territory'  by  an  aggressive 
war.  Not  alone  did  he  oppose  the  war  because  of  its  disastrous  conse- 
quences for  Southern  slave  interests.  Not  the  sufferings  to  Mexico  alone 
but  the  damage  to  the  American  spirit  was  the  theme  he  stressed.  A 
terrible  sincerity  underlined  his  words.  There  is  'a  curse,'  he  warned,  'which 
must  ever  befall  a  free  government'  which  holds  other  men  in  subjection. 
'With  me  the  liberty  of  the  country  is  all.'  To  preserve  its  'free  popular 
institutions  ...  to  adopt  a  course  of  moderation  and  justice  towards  all 

*  Here,,  as  in  previous  chapters,  several  speeches  have  been  grouped  and  consolidated 
to  cover  certain  issues,  rather  than  always  being  presented  hi  exact  chronology.  See 
notes  for  this  chapter. 


XXVI  THE   RISING  STORM  449 

other  countries  ...  to  avoid  war  whenever  it  can  be  avoided5  would  'do 
more  to  extend  liberty  by  our  example  over  this  continent  and  the  world 
generally,  than  would  be  done  by  a  thousand  victories.' 14 

His  were  no  empty  fears.  So  hungry  was  the  ambition  of  imperialists. 
North  and  South;  so  fierce  the  urge  to  plant  the  Stars  and  Stripes  far  to 
the  South,  even  to  Central  America,  that  Webster  had  called  upon  Con- 
gress to  withhold  war  supplies  until  the  conflict  could  be  proved  dearly 
justifiable.  At  his  side  stood  Calhoun.  'If  fight  we  must/  he  pled,  'let  us 
fight  a  defensive  war'  with  the  least  sacrifice  of  men  and  money.  What  were 
our  acknowledged  aims?  To  repel  invasion,  to  establish  the  Rio  Grande  as 
the  boundary  of  Texas;  and  to  obtain  indemnities  for  the  claims  of  our 
citizens.  Already  our  first  two  objectives  had  been  accomplished.  A  de- 
fensive policy  would  make  the  Mexicans  feel  this  conflict  less  a  war  of 
race  and  religions,  Calhoun  contended.  Why  should  we  invade  Vera  Cruz  to 
'compel  the  Mexicans  to  acknowledge  as  ours  what  we  already  hold?'  We 
could  conquer  these  'proud,  unconquerable  people';  but  would  our  con- 
quest bring  a  cessation  of  guerrilla  warfare?  Would  conquest  bring  true 
peace?  And  what  of  the  men  to  be  expended— the  heat — the  yellow  fever 
— the  broken  bodies?  'Can  you  as  a  Christian,'  Calhoun  appealed  to  each 
and  every  Senator,  'justify'  giving  a  vote  to  its  continuance? 

He  closed  with  a  characteristic  warning:  he  was  aware  of  the  determina- 
tion of  the  non-slave  states  that  no  slavery  would  be  permitted  in  the  new 
territories.  'Be  assured/  he  concluded,  'if  there  be  stern  determination  on 
one  side  to  exclude  us,  there  will  be  determination  sterner  still  on  ours,  not 
to  be  excluded.' 1S 

Despite  the  shift  in  public  opinion,  Congressional  opinion,  then  as  now 
was  not  to  be  diverted  by  speechmaking.  Calhoun's  plan  was  more  theoreti- 
cal than  possible.  Feelings  had  gone  too  high.  Passive  resistance  would  have 
been  a  practical  impossibility  in  the  face  of  the  enraged  Mexicans,  em- 
bittered from  the  crushing  American  victories  during  the  early  months; 
nor  was  'masterly  inactivity'  calculated  to  keep  the  American  armies  con- 
tent amidst  heat,  disease,  and  enemy  sniping.  But  that  Calhoun's  challenges 
had  made  a  strong  impression  was  proved  to  him  by  the  'fierce  war'  they 
drew  upon  him  from  the  Administration  supporters.16 

Presidential  ambitions,  taunted  Turney  of  Tennessee,  were  responsible 
for  the  Senator's  opposition  to  the  Mexican  War.  Hotly  Callioun  refuted 
the  charge.  'The  Senator  is  entirely  mistaken.  I  am  no  aspirant — never 
have  been.  I  would  not  turn  on  my  heel  for  the  Presidency,  and  he  has 
uttered  a  libel  upon  me.' 17  Benton,  too,  shot  arrows  into  his  old  enemy, 
charging  that  it  was  none  other  than  the  Senator  from  South  Carolina  who 
was  'the  author  of  the  present  war.'  War  was  the  inevitable  outcome  of  the 
annexation  of  Texas. 

Calhoun  arose  to  the  challenge.  'I  trust  there  will  be  no  dispute  here- 
after as  to  who  is  the  real  author  of  annexation,'  he  proudly  declared.  He 


450  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 

had  had  competition  for  the  honor,  but  now,  'since  the  war  has  become 
unpopular,  they  all  seem  to  agree  that  I  ...  am  the  author  of  annexation. 
I  will  not  put  the  honor  aside.1 1S 

He,  of  course,  denied  that  the  Texas  annexation  was  the  cause  of  the 
war.  He  had  been  negotiating  with  the  Mexican  Commissioners.  Had  he 
remained  as  Secretary  of  State,  he  contended,  he  would  have  settled  the 
boundary  question  in  a  manner  definite  and  satisfactory  both  to  Mexico 
and  the  United  States.  Yet  there  is  justice  in  Benton's  charge.  For  the 
Texas  annexation  was  but  one  more  example  of  Calhoun's  faculty  for 
involving  his  state,  his  section,  and  his  country  in  situations  which  only 
his  own  intellect  could  unravel  and  which  he  had  no  guarantee  whatever 
that  he  would  be  permitted  to  unravel. 


The  war  on  the  battlefield,  however,  Calhoun  and  all  Congress  knew  was 
minor  compared  to  the  seething  controversy  over  the  division  of  the  spoils. 
To  'force  the  issue  upon  the  North'  was  now  Calhoun's  driving  aim.  And 
the  North  had  decided,  he  proclaimed.  There  would  be  no  more  admission 
of  slave  states.  No  slavery  would  be  permitted  in  the  territories.  In  all  but 
the  Senate — in  the  House,  in  the  Electoral  College — the  South  was  in  the 
minority.  Soon  a  state  would  be  entered  north  of  Iowa  and  another  north 
of  that,  and  even  in  the  Senate  the  strength  of  the  South  would  be  broken. 
We  shall  be  at  the  entire  mercy  of  the  non-slaveholding  States.* 

The  time  for  compromise,  Calhoun  believed,  was  over.  He  had  sought 
to  have  the  line  of  the  Missouri  Compromise  extended  to  the  Pacific.  This 
was  the  course  he  had  suggested  to  his  friends.  'Let  us  not  be  the  disturbers 
of  this  Union.'  His  efforts  had  been  futile;  twice  the  extension  of  the 
Missouri  Compromise  line  had  been  voted  down. 

Now  he  saw  his  error.  Madison  had  been  right  when  he  proclaimed  the 
Compromise  'without  a  shade  of  constitutional  authority.'  It  had  never 
been  binding  upon  the  South.  The  South  had  agreed  to  it  for  the  mutual 
harmony  and  peace  of  the  Union.  For  surrendering  her  'rights'  in  the 
territories,  she  had  been  promised  the  return  of  her  fugitive  slaves;  yet  no 
state  but  Illinois  had  'freely'  given  them  up.10 

What  now?  'God  only  knows.'  The  Constitution  upheld  the  Southern 
side.  The  debates  of  the  Constitutional  Convention  offered  proof  that  we 
were  a  federal,  not  a  national,  government,  'the  best  Government,  instead 
of  the  most  despotic.'  It  was  this  'constellation  of  nations'  which  the  Con- 
stitution had  been  written  to  protect. 

The  Constitution  itself,  for  example,  empowered  Congress  to  legislate 
for  the  District  of  Columbia.  Here  was  added  proof  of  the  federal  theory. 
For  the  District  of  Columbia  was  specifically  exempted  from  the  sover- 


XXVI  THE  RISING  STORM  451 

eignty  and  control  ascribed  to  the  states.  All  else,  all  territory,  with  the 
single  exception  of  the  public  lands,  was  the  property  of  'the  people  of  the 
several  States.  .  .  .  They  are  as  much  the  territory  of  one  State  as  another, 
of  Virginia  as  of  New  York.  They  are  the  territories  of  all,  because  they 
are  the  territories  of  each;  and  not  of  each,  because  they  are  the  territories 
of  all.'  And  as  the  Constitution  could  'give  no  preference  or  advantage  to 
one  State  over  another/  so  it  could  give  no  advantage  to  'one  portion  of 
the  Union  over  another.'  The  rights  of  the  states  were  the  rights  of  the 
territories — no  more,  no  less.20 

Was  there  hope  in  the  Constitution?  There  was  none  in  compromises, 
subject  as  they  were  to  the  shifting  whims  of  the  Congress  and  the  people. 
Congressional  compromise,  he  warned,  would  only  'lull  us  to  sleep  again, 
without  removing  the  danger.'  That  the  Constitution  itself  was  a  thing  of 
compromises,  resting  ultimately  upon  that  same  shifting  will  of  the  people, 
he  never  stopped  to  consider.  'Let  us  adhere  to  the  Constitution'  was  his 
plea.  'The  Constitution  is  a  rock.  ...  I  see  my  way  in  the  Constitution. 
.  .  .  Let  us  have  done  with  compromises.  Let  us  go  back  and  stand  upon 
the  Constitution.' 

If  Congress  denied  the  South  its  'constitutional  rights/  Calhoun  would 
leave  the  matter  to  his  constituents.  'I  give  no  advice.  But  I  may  speak 
as  an  individual  member  of  that  section  of  the  Union.  .  .  .  There  is  my 
family  .  .  .  there  I  drew  my  first  breath;  there  are  all  my  hopes.  I  am 
a  Southern  man  and  a  slaveholder,  a  kind  and  merciful  one,  I  trust,  and 
none  the  worse  for  being  a  slaveholder/  He  would  not  'give  up  ...  one 
inch  of  what  belongs  to  us  as  members  of  this  great  Republic.  The  sur- 
render of  life  is  nothing  to  sinking  down  into  acknowledged  inferiority.' 
Somberly  he  warned:  'The  day  the  balance  between  the  two  sections  .  .  . 
is  destroyed,  is  a  day  .  .  .  not  far  removed  from  revolution,  anarchy,  and 
Civil  War.'21 

On  February  19,  1847,  Calhoun  laid  before  the  Senate  four  resolutions 
which  stripped  the  argument  to  the  essentials:  the  declaration  that  the 
territories  were  the  joint  property  of  the  states:  that  Congress,  the  states' 
agent,  could  make  no  discrimination  which  would  deprive  any  state  of 
its  rights;  that  any  such  law  would  violate  the  Constitution,  states'  rights, 
and  the  equality  of  the  Union;  and  finally,  that  men  have  a  right  to  form 
their  state  governments  as  they  see  fit,  the  only  power  of  Congress  being 
to  see  that  those  governments  were  republican.22 

'We  foresee  what  is  coming/  Calhoun  said.  The  'greatest  of  calamities' 
was  not  insurrection,  but  something  worse.  '.  .  .  We  love  and  revere  the 
Union;  it  is  the  interest  of  all — I  might  add  the  world — that  our  Union 
should  be  preserved.'  But  the  conservative  power  was  in  the  slaveholding 
states.  In  contrast  to  the  labor  wars  of  the  North,  Southern  labor  and 
capital  were  identified.  In  conflicts  between  the  two,  the  South  would  be 
on  the  conservative  side.  Cunningly  he  appealed  to  the  cupidity  of  the 


452  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 

Northern  industrialists  and  their  Congressional  representatives.  'Gentlemen 
.  .  .  warring  on  us  ...  are  warring  on  themselves  P  They,  not  the 
Southerners,  were  creating  the  excitement.  'All  we  ask/  concluded  Cal- 
houn,  asking  the  impossible,  'is  to  be  let  alone.'  M 

There  is  tragedy  in  his  baffled  appeal.  Where  was  the  great  liberal  of 
only  a  few  years  before  who  had  so  clearly  perceived  industrial  capitalism 
as  the  avowed  enemy  of  Northern  labor  and  Southern  farmer  alike,  and 
who  was  forging  a  political  realignment  on  that  realization?  In  his  appeal 
to  'Gentlemen,  North  and  South/  he  was  abandoning  his  own  hard-won 
allies.  Upon  the  preservation  of  Southern  rights,  he  was  convinced,  turned 
all  minority  rights;  and  to  save  these  he  would  not  scruple  even  to  use 
Northern  capital  as  an  instrument  against  itself. 

But  not  even  the  giant  intellect  of  Calhoun  could  play  the  game  two 
ways.  Northern  capital,  stiffened  against  his  onslaughts  of  the  past,  was 
scarcely  receptive  to  his  belated  wooing  now.  He  was,  indeed,  right  in 
his  realization  that  slavery  profited  the  capitalist  of  the  North;  but  if  so, 
he  could  hardly  present  the  South  at  the  same  time  as  the  ally  of  the 
laborer  and  the  enemy  of  the  North.  Realist  that  he  was,  he  had  tempo- 
rarily shifted  his  means  to  attain  his  ends;  but  he  could  not  do  so  without 
confusing  the  stand  of  the  South  and  his  own  status  as  a  defender  of  the 
liberties  and  not  of  the  enslavement  of  men.  He  was  trapped  by  the 
dilemma  of  his  time* 


His  very  resolutions  flung  the  issue  in  the  teeth  of  the  North.  Abstrac- 
tions/ Benton  called  them,  'firebrands  to  set  the  world  on  fire.5  **  Actually 
they  showed  masterful  political  strategy.  They  were  adopted  by  numerous 
Southern  Legislatures.  The  Senate,  it  is  true,  received  them  with  'disfavor/ 
but  Calhoun  never  pressed  for  their  passage.  Apparently  he  had  not  even 
intended  to  do  so. 

They  accomplished  their  objective,  however.  They  had  been  written,  not 
for  the  Senate  but  for  the  country;  their  deliberate  purpose,  to  frighten  the 
Northern  and  Southern  imperialists  out  of  their  dreams  for  the  annexation 
of  Mexico!  If  the  North  saw  that  the  Southern  determination  that  all 
Mexico  would  be  slave  was  as  firmly  rooted  as  the  Northern  decision  that 
she  would  be  free,  would  she  then  be  so  eager  to  annex  all  Mexico?  Thus 
Calhoun  reasoned,  and  thus  he  won.  Although  the  threat  of  the  Wilmot 
Proviso  had  certainly  been  effective  in  dimming  the  fervor  of  the  Southern 
imperialists,  Calhoun  was  convinced  that  it  was  his  resolutions  that  saved 
Mexico,  'turned  the  tide  and  brought  the  Union  to  a  disavowal/  * 

So  far  as  the  South  was  concerned,  however,  Calhoun  knew  that  the 
Mexican  territory  was  only  half  the  picture.  To  him  it  was  no  surprise  in 


XXVT  THE  RISING  STORM  453 

the  session  of  1848  when  .the  bills  for  territorial  governments  for  Oregon 
came  in  under  the  banner  of  free  soil.  And  the  stand  that  he  took  was  the 
logical  consequence  of  Mr.  Wilmot's  theory.  If  the  North  would  permit  no 
slavery  in  New  Mexico,  then  the  South  could  permit  no  freedom  in  Oregon. 
Had  not  the  principle  of  the  Missouri  Compromise  been  abandoned,  he 
would  never  have  pressed  the  question.  As  he  told  Polk:  'He  did  not  desire 
to  extend  slavery  .  .  .  but  he  would  vote  against  a  bill  with  slavery  re- 
stricted, on  principle/ 26 

Logically  no  choice  was  left  him.  He  knew  perfectly  well  that  Oregon, 
under  the  law  of  nature,  as  Webster  pointed  out,  would  never  be  slave 
territory.  Why,  then,  could  not  the  South  be  permitted  the  enjoyment  of 
its  'rights'?  In  theory  the  few  Southerners  who  might  migrate  to  Oregon 
could  take  their  slaves  with  them.  And  this  was  a  right  that  must  be  in- 
sisted upon.  For  if  Congress  could  prohibit  slavery  anywhere — this  was 
Calhoun's  warning — then,  logically,  Congress  could  prohibit  it  everywhere. 


Nor  could  Calhoun  support  Henry  Clay's  resolutions  of  1848,  specifically 
allowing  slavery  in  the  territories.  Congress  had  no  more  power  to  permit 
than  to  abolish  the  institution,  he  contended,  and  to  acknowledge  the  one 
right  would  be  to  recognize  the  other. 

Clay  bridled.  Did  anyone  deny  the  right  of  Congress  to  prohibit  slavery? 

'Yes,'  Calhoun  answered  steadily,  'I  deny  it.' 

The  abolitionists,  he  charged,  were  striving  for  a  'general  principle'  that 
hereafter  no  territory  should  be  created  in  which  slavery  should  not  be 
prohibited.  In  the  face  of  such  determination,  how  could  men  submit  to 
the  Senator  from  Kentucky's  stand  that  the  abolition  of  slavery  would  be 
'inexpedient'?  Inexpedient!  He  whirled  upon  the  New  England  Senators. 
Did  they  not  believe  slavery  a  sin?  How  could  you  justify  a  sin  in  terms 
of  expediency? 

'Far  higher  ground  must  be  taken  ...  as  high  as  that  assumed  by  those 
determined  madmen.'  Only  thus  could  they  be  shown  that  'while  they  are 
acting  in  the  name  of  morals  and  religion,  they  are  ...  violating  the  most 
solemn  obligations,  political,  moral,  and  religious.' 

He  had  acknowledged  surrender.  The  North  had  had  the  choice  of 
weapons  and  had  chosen  to  fight  on  moral  grounds.  To  defend  slavery  in 
terms  of  expediency  now  would  be  like  'extinguishing  a  conflagration  that 
mounted  to  the  clouds  by  throwing  a  bucket  of  water  on  it.'  Fire  could 
only  be  fought  with  fire,  power  with  power.  To  apologize  for  slavery  was 
to  admit  its  evil.  Once  slavery  had  been  thought  an  evil;  not  now.  Now  it 
'was  the  most  .  .  .  stable  basis  for  free  institutions  in  the  world.'  * 


454  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 


8 

This  was  'the  platform  of  the  South,'  the  heresy  that  Calhoun  flung  in  the 
face  of  the  North  and  its  leaders  during  the  debate  over  the  territories  of 
New  Mexico  and  Oregon.  He  began  with  restraint  enough.  It  was  safe  to 
cite  Jefferson's  belief  that  'Congress  had  no  power  to  regulate  the  con- 
dition of  ...  men  comprising  a  State.  This  is  the  exclusive  right  of  every 
State.'  Jefferson's  words  meant  little;  it  was  only  his  name  that  mattered. 

But  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  Northerners  to  have  understood 
the  sudden  chill  arrogance  that  gripped  the  man  before  them,  the  taunts 
at  his  Southern  colleagues  for  losing  their  dignity  as  equals  among  equals. 
'You  are  woefully  degenerated  from  your  sires.'  Strange,  too,  were  the 
sneers  at  menial  tasks;  not  'the  poorest  or  the  lowest'  Southern  man  would 
perform  them.  'He  has  too  much  pride  .  .  .  and  I  rejoice  that  he  has. 
They  are  unsuited  to  the  spirit  of  a  free  man.'  Yet  no  man  felt  degraded 
by  working  in  the  field  with  his  slave. 

And  there  was  sheer  heresy  in  his  flagrant  repudiation  of  the  very  words 
of  the  Declaration  of  Independence.  There  were  men  who  listened,  patriotic 
and  sincere,  who  in  the  stark  honesty  of  Calhoun's  words  saw  how  wide, 
how  impassably  wide,  the  gulf  between  North  and  South  had  become.  So 
long  as  a  common  belief  held  men  together,  the  Union  might  survive;  but 
now,  under  the  ruthless  realism  of  Calhoun's  hammer-strokes,  the  very 
spiritual  foundations  of  the  Union  were  shattering.  'Men  were  not  born 
free  and  equal,'  he  was  saying.  'Men  are  not  born.  Infants  are  born.  .  .  . 
While  infants  they  are  incapable  of  freedom.' 

Relentlessly  he  tore  at  the  beliefs  born  of  Revolution,  the  bases  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence,  Rousseau's  free  and  natural  man.  Man  was 
not  born  in  a  state  of  nature,  Calhoun  contended.  He  was  born  subject  to 
the  limitations  of  the  society  in  which  destiny  had  placed  him.  The  safety 
of  society  was  paramount  to  the  liberty  of  the  individual.  Yet  government, 
necessary  to  protect  men  from  the  threat  of  anarchy,  had  'no  right  to  con- 
trol individual  liberty  beyond'  what  was  necessary  for  the  safety  of 
society.29 

Thus  did  Calhoun  justify  the  enslavement  of  the  Negro.  For  in  the 
South  of  his  day  he  believed  neither  economically,  socially,  nor  politically 
would  there  have  been  safety  with  the  Negro  free.  Furthermore,  if  the 
citizenry  were  'ignorant,  stupid,  debased,'  by  so  much  must  governmental 
power  be  greater  and  individual  freedom  less.  As  a  people  rose  in  intelli- 
gence and  in  their  understanding  of  liberty,  governmental  power  would 
become  less  'and  individual  liberty  greater.' 

Jefferson  had  been  wrong  in  his  'false  view'  that  men  utterly  unqualified 
to  possess  liberty  were  'fully  entitled'  to  it.  It  was  'a  great  mistake'  to  sup- 


XXVI  THE  RISING  STORM  455 

pose  'all  people  .  .  .  capable  of  self-government.'  Vehemently  Calhoun 
condemned  the  idealists  who  deemed  it  'the  mission  of  this  country  .  .  . 
to  force  free  governments  on  all  the  people  of  this  continent  and  over  the 
world.'  Free  governments,  he  declared,  with  the  recent  histories  of  France 
and  Germany  fresh  in  his  mind,  'must  be  the  spontaneous  wish  of  the 
people  .  .  .  must  emanate  from  the  hearts  of  the  people.'  Liberty  was 
'harder  to  preserve  .  .  .  than  to  maintain.'  To  bestow  liberty  upon  all 
men,  'without  regard  to  their  fitness  either  to  acquire  or  maintain  it,'  would 
deny  it  to  those  entitled  to  it;  and  would  do  more  'to  retard  the  cause  of 
liberty  than  all  other  causes  combined.1 30 

Thus,  in  words  of  harsh  realism,  did  Calhoun  lay  bare  the  platform  of 
the  South.  Talk  of  this  kind  was  scarcely  calculated  to  lull  the  abolitionists 
into  a  peaceful  surrender  of  the  contested  territories  into  the  hands  of  the 
slaveholders.  Calhoun's  feelings  had  gone  beyond  his  control.  None  more 
than  he  deplored  the  'agitation'  of  the  slavery  question;  yet  none  more 
than  he  threw  so  much  fuel  upon  the  fire. 


Week  after  week,  month  after  month,  session  after  session,  the  fight 
dragged  on.  It  rose  to  a  feverish  pitch  in  the  steamy  midsummer  of  1848  as 
nerves  and  tempers  and  sweat-soaked  bodies  battled  to  hold  the  Union 
together.  Calhoun,  buoyed  up  by  his  determination,  labored  through  the 
summer.  Surprisingly  enough,  his  precarious  health  stood  by  him;  he  felt 
better  than  he  had  in  several  years,  and  his  friends  thought  he  looked  un- 
usually well.  He  was  tired,  however,  and  admitted  to  Andrew  that  his 
engagements  left  him  no  leisure  for  relaxation,  'which  I  greatly  need  and 
desire,'31 

He  voiced  the  stand  of  the  South  on  June  16,  1848,  speaking  in  opposi- 
tion to  a  bill  excluding  slavery  'forever'  from  the  entire  Oregon  territory. 
With  increased  vehemence  he  denied  that  Congress  had  the  requisite  power. 
That  the  Constitution  established  slavery  in  the  territories,  he  never  had 
the  temerity  to  assert;  but  the  right  of  slaveholders  to  bring  their  property 
to  any  territory  of  the  United  States,  organized  or  unorganized,  he  claimed 
as  guaranteed  under  the  Constitution.  And  even  more  important  than  the 
rights  of  slavery,  he  contended,  was  the  self-defense  of  the  South.  All  that 
the  North  was  seeking  was  the  balance  of  power.  From  then  on,  it  would 
be  easy  to  enforce  abolition;  with  abolition  enforced,  all  states'  rights,  all 
Southern  self-determination,  would  be  at  an  end.  His  contentions  were 
effective;  the  bill  was  lost. 

The  battle,  however,  had  just  begun.  By  mid- July,  with  the  tacit  con- 
sent of  Calhoun,  a  compromise  was  evolved.  In  Oregon  the  slavery  ques- 
tion would  be  decided  by  the  territorial  legislature.  In  New  Mexico  and 


456  JOHN    C.    CALHOUN 

California  it  would  be  left  to  courts,  composed  almost  entirely  of  Southern 
men.  At  an  all-night  session  on  the  twenty-seventh,  the  Senate  passed  the 
bill,  but  in  the  House  it  was  defeated,  not  by  the  abolitionists,  but  by  little 
Alexander  Stephens  of  Georgia,  who,  for  reasons  best  known  to  himself, 
moved  that  it  be  laid  on  the  table.  The  battle  was  on  again. 

A  second  bill,  prohibiting  slavery  in  Oregon,  was  ready  by  August.  All 
through  the  night  of  the  thirteenth  the  sleepy  Senators  growled  and 
wrangled  in  the  stifling  Chamber,  voting  its  passage  by  dawn  in  sheer  ex- 
haustion. Calhoun  had  seen  it  coming;  he  had  been  at  the  White  House 
all  the  evening  before,  pleading  with  Polk  for  a  veto.  Polk  refused.  He  was 
President  of  the  United  States,  not  of  the  South,  and  it  was  unjust  to  keep 
the  people  of  Oregon  stranded  without  a  government,  merely  because  of  the 
slavery  question.  Furthermore,  the  President  warned  the  impetuous  Caro- 
linian, the  nation  was  now  too  'inflamed'  for  a  veto.82  Nothing  could  be 
done. 

All  Calhoun's  efforts  had  gained  him  nothing  but  a  deeper  place  hi  the 
affections  of  the  Southern  people.  His  very  name  could  not  be  mentioned 
in  a  routine  speech  from  Mississippi  to  Virginia  without  throwing  an 
entire  audience  into  wild  applause.  If  he  stepped  onto  a  public  stage,  the 
whole  hall  would  rise  in  tribute.  He  inspired  a  fanatic  loyalty  in  his  fol- 
lowers. He  stopped  in  Cheraw,  South  Carolina,  wearing  the  chin-whiskers 
which  he  had  grown  to  protect  his  throat  early  in  the  eighteen-forties. 
Within  a  month  all  the  male  citizenry  of  Cheraw  had  sprouted  goatees! 
At  Saratoga  Springs,  a  South  Carolina  Whig  pleased  William  H.  Seward 
by  upbraiding  'the  renegade  Democrat,'  Martin  Van  Buren,  'the  great  man 
of  New  York.'  Seward  then  thought,  cas  a  brother  Whig,'  he  would  please 
his  companion  by  attacking  Mr.  Calhoun,  'the  great  man  of  South  Caro- 
lina.' But  scarcely  ten  words  were  out  before  the  Southerner  had  flown  into 
<a  great  passion,'  swearing  that  'no  man  should  abuse  Mr.  Calhoun  hi  his 
presence.'  ** 

He  was  'the  great  Southerner,'  the  South's  popular  hero.  In  Columbia, 
in  the  fall  of  1848,  he  caused  a  sensation;  and  out  at  the  University  the 
little  brick  chapel  was  crammed  with  eager  students.  They  were  struck 
with  his  appearance,  for  he  stood  before  them  erect  and  sparkling-eyed, 
with  all  the  untapped  energy  of  youth  in  every  word  and  hi  every  move- 
ment of  his  'sinewy  frame.'  Buoyed  up  by  his  driving  purpose,  his  'con- 
tagious enthusiasm'  struck  fire  from  his  young  listeners.84  But  he  had  no 
cheer  to  offer  them.  'The  bitter,'  he  knew,  was  'yet  to  come.' 85 


xxvn 

The  Statesman  and  the  Man 


FROM  HIS  SEAT  in  the  press  gallery,  reporter  Oliver  Dyer  looked  across 
the  Senate  Chamber  with  unfeigned  distaste.  Young  Mr.  Dyer  was  bitter. 
The  previous  summer  he  had  attended  the  Whig  Convention  of  1848  where 
he  had  seen  his  idol,  Henry  Clay,  the  gallant  'Harry  of  the  West/  now 
seventy-one  years  old,  thrown  once  more  upon  the  scrap-heap  of  rejected 
Presidential  candidates,  his  last  hope  of  obtaining  a  lifetime  goal  forever 
obliterated.  And  who  was  responsible?  Not  the  party  hacks,  but  the  men 
of  Dyer's  own  age,  who  had  wisely  calculated  that  in  the  awarding  of 
party  spoils  they  would  have  nothing  to  win  from  Clay.1  He  had  been 
in  public  life  too  long;  the  old  friends  would  reap  the  rewards.  So  Clay  had 
been  discarded  for  a  novice  in  politics,  with  no  debts  to  the  past,  a  new 
version  of  the  old  military  hero  theme,  pipe-chewing,  hard-bitten  'Old 
Rough  and  Ready/  Zachary  Taylor  of  Buena  Vista  fame. 

This  was  the  end,  thought  Dyer.  New  faces  were  moving  among  the  old, 
new  voices  echoing  in  Senate  and  House.  In  the  Senate,  there  was  Jeffer- 
son Davis,  on  crutches  from  a  crippling  wound  at  Buena  Vista.  From  Illi- 
nois came  little  Stephen  A.  Douglas  with  his  giant  head  and  giant  mind; 
and  in  the  new  seat  for  the  'Senator  from  Texas'  loomed  the  'noble  figure 
and  handsome  face'  of  the  ex-President  of  the  Texas  Republic,  Sam 
Houston.2  The  third  and  fourth  generation  of  American  statesmen  these, 
with  unspent  greatness  in  them;  but  for  the  younger  spectators,  the  new- 
comers to  the  gallery,  it  was  the  old-timers,  Benton,  Clay,  Calhoun,  and 
Webster,  who  sent  excitement  quivering  through  their  nerve  ends. 

These  were  the  men  born  when  the  guns  of  the  Revolution  were  booming 
out  their  last  salutes  at  Saratoga  and  Yorktown,  when  the  Constitution  was 
but  an  unmapped  jumble  of  ideas  in  the  minds  of  Madison  and  Hamilton. 
These  men  had  grown  up  during  the  Presidencies  of  Washington  and 
Adams;  they  could  remember  Jefferson  and  Monroe  and  Randolph — all 
the  vanished  giants  of  the  golden  age.  Theirs  was  the  second  generation  of 
Americans,  the  link  between  the  colonial  past  and  the  national  industrial 
future.  To  look  at  them  was  to  look  at  living  history.  They  were  old 
now,  Clay  and  Calhoun  perceptibly  breaking,  but  among  the  new  faces 
and  the  new  names  they  towered  like  giants  as  they  had  overshadowed 
eight  of  the  Presidents  who  had  served  with  them. 


458  JOHN    C.    CALHOUN 


Of  all,  there  was  none  whom  time  had  touched  more  lightly  than  Daniel 
Webster.  His  body  had  thickened,  his  hair  grown  thin  and  gray,  but  the 
wonderful  bronze  sheen  of  his  skin  still  glowed,  and  the  great  eyes  seemed 
darker  and  more  brooding  than  in  youth.3 

He  saved  his  strength  by  wasting  none  of  it  on  routine.  Unlike  Calhoun, 
who  was  never  known  to  leave  his  seat  except  for  illness,  Webster  scorned 
to  risk  his  health  by  sitting  in  the  deadly  air  and  cramped  space  of  the 
Senate  Chamber,  and  appeared  only  to  speak  or  answer  roll-call.  Between- 
times  you  saw  him  walking  majestically  to  and  fro  in  the  lobby,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back.  He  seldom  spoke,  but  was  seemingly  aware  that 
those  who  saw  him  were  overawed  by  him.  His  dignity  had  become  little 
short  of  portentous,  and  his  conversation  was  as  stately  as  his  body.  For 
political  small-talk  and  the  men  who  talked  it,  he  had  only  scorn.  It  was 
the  clergymen  and  the  constitutional  lawyers  who  found  a  welcome  from 
Daniel  Webster;  and  he  spoke  to  the  highest,  not  the  lowest,  levels  of  his 
listeners. 

There  were  some,  however,  who  had  the  ill  grace  to  quibble  that  Web- 
ster's taste  for  admiration  was  something  less  fastidious  than  his  oratory, 
and  who  recoiled  in  disgust  from  the  droves  of  bankers,  stock-jobbers,  and 
industrialists  who  would  tip  gallery  officers  to  give  them  the  best  seats  in 
which  to  sit  nodding  their  heads  sagely  at  the  Websterian  profundities  and 
the  Websterian  Latin,  which  few  of  them  could  understand.  The  defender 
of  the  Union  he  might  well  be;  but  all  knew  that  he  was  also  the  great 
'conservator  of  wealth  against  unfavorable  legislation.'  * 

Liberals  mourned  Daniel  Webster,  just  as  they  mourned  Calhoun's 
'political  decadence.'  They  mourned  his  lost  opportunities,  the  sluggishness, 
both  intellectual  and  moral,  which  left  him  halted  just  at  the  gateway  of 
true  greatness.  'The  victory  won,  he  would  lapse  into  indifference.'  Had 
he  seen  the  opportunities  seized  upon  by  lesser  men,  would  he  have  been 
the  great  American  of  his  age?  Many  thought  so;  others  feared  that  had 
his  will-power  matched  his  intellect,  he  might  have  set  himself  up  as  a 
dictator.  But  it  was  Daniel  Webster  who  had  shown  the  nation  the  philoso- 
phy of  government  that  was  the  partner  of  its  new  philosophy  in  econom- 
ics. By  harnessing  its  claims  in  the  sacred  name  of  the  Union,  he  had  made 
industrial  progress  a  holy  and  a  national  cause. 

Furthermore,  it  was  generally  agreed  that  without  Webster  in  the  Senate, 
'Calhoun  would  have  carried  everything  before  him.' 5  No  one  but  Webster 
had  the  intellect  to  cope  with  the  assaults  of  the  great  Carolinian.  And  he 
could  do  so  without  offense,  either  to  Calhoun  or  to  Calhoun's  followers. 
Aloof,  ponderous  though  he  was,  no  other  Senator  was  on  such  good  terms 
with  all  his  colleagues. 


XXVH  THE  STATESMAN  AND  THE  MAN  459 


Age  had  little  effect  upon  'Old  Bullion'  Benton,  survivor  of  a  duel  with 
Andrew  Jackson.  With  his  burly  frame  and  his  booming  voice,  in  which 
you  could  almost  hear  the  whirr  of  the  tomahawk,  about  him  still  was 
the  aura  of  frontier  days  when  men  gouged  and  knifed  each  other.  Every 
morning  he  scrubbed  his  body  down  to  the  hips  with  a  rough  horsehair 
brush,  and  every  evening  completed  the  operation  from  hips  to  feet,  after- 
wards being  vigorously  'curried  down'  by  his  body-servant.  His  skin  was 
like  leather,  his  muscles  like  iron.  'Why,  sir/  he  would  roar,  'if  I  were  to 
touch  you  with  that  brush,  sir,  you  would  cry  murder,  sir.'  Why  did  he  do 
it?  'The  Roman  gladiators  did  it,  sir.'  * 

There  was  a  kind  of  flamboyant  magnificence  about  him.  By  sheer  bull- 
dog persistence  he  had  shoved  and  elbowed  his  way  into  the  front  rank  of 
American  statesmen.  Intellectually  his  abilities  were  acquired  rather  than 
innate;  and  it  was  said  of  him  that  he  'carried  the  Congressional  Library 
in  his  head.'  His  respect  for  facts  and  figures  was  profound;  and  he  had 
only  scorn  for  subtleties  that  he  could  not  understand.  'What  are  the 
facts?'  was  his  perpetual  demand.  'Give  us  the  facts.' 7 

There  was  something  laughable  in  the  childishness  of  Benton's  ego, 
in  his  boast:  'Yes,  sir,  General  Jackson  was  a  great  man,  sir.  ...  He  was 
of  great  use  to  me,  sir.'  Even  the  reporters  smiled  at  his  claim  that  his 
rhetorical  exuberances  were  a  favorite  study  and  inspiration  for  young 
men.8  But  few  could  help  but  admire  the  bulldog  courage  of  the  man,  who, 
as  his  state  became  'more  Southern,'  himself  became  more  unionistic,  setting 
himself  in  defiance  of  his  section,  his  time,  and  his  constituency. 

He  was  a  terrible  man  in  anger.  The  ruthlessness  of  the  Indian  fighter, 
the  'gleam  of  the  scalping  knife,'  was  in  his  bitter  mockery  and  his  'rasping 
squeal'  of  sarcasm.  Since  the  day  when  he  had  stood  up  before  Henry 
Foote,  shouting,  'Fire,  assasin,  fire,'  he  had  wasted  neither  conciliation  nor 
courtesy  upon  his  enemies.  'Mr.  President,  sir  ...  I  never  quarrel,  sir; 
but  I  sometimes  fight,  sir;  and  whenever  I  fight,  sir,  a  funeral  follows, 


sir.'9 


Yet  all  marked  the  tenderness  he  lavished  upon  his  insane  wife.  No  one 
who  saw  could  forget  his  gentleness  on  the  evening  when,  entertaining  a 
French  Prince  and  other  distinguished  guests,  Mrs.  Benton  in  a  n6glig£e, 
rambled  into  the  room  and  stood  staring  lovingly  at  her  husband.  Talk 
halted.  All  .looked  on  as  Benton  arose,  took  her  by  the  hand,  and,  with 
the  'majesty  of  a  demi-god,'  presented  her  to  the  Prince  and  the  visitors.10 
Then  he  drew  a  hassock  to  his  chair,  seated  her,  gave  her  his  hand  to  play 
with,  and  went  on  talking  as  before. 

Politically  Henry  Clay  was  his  abomination.  Even  to  the  most  casual 
observer  it  was  a  marvel  how  deeply  he  could  hurt  the  high-strung  Ken- 


460  JOHN   C,  CALHOUN 

tuckian.  Clay,  his  long  body  trembling,  his  eyes  blaring,  would  jump  to  his 
feet,  'to  puncture  the  Senator's  balloon,3  lashing  out  with  scornful  invective, 
raking  up  bitter  memories,  till  his  friends  would  intervene,  only  to  be 
turned  aside  with  a  curt  'Sit  down,  sir,  sit  down;  I  can  take  care  of  my- 
self.' u  And  Benton,  sitting  nearby,  would  turn  and  win  the  debate  with  a 
pitying  smile.  Only  one  man  was — apparently — unmoved  by  the  Benton 
blusterings,  and  this  was  John  C.  Calhoun. 


Of  all  the  Senate  'giants'  in  the  dying  years  of  the  eighteen-forties,  none 
attracted  more  spectators  to  the  gallery  than  Calhoun.  And  of  all  the  spec- 
tators at  the  turbulent  sessions  of  1848,  none  was  so  eager  to  see  Calhoun 
as  reporter  Oliver  Dyer. 

Dyer  hated  Calhoun.  Calhoun,  he  knew,  was  a  bad  man,  the  defender  of 
human  servitude,  the  fomenter  of  all  the  outcry  for  disunion  and  secession. 
What  would  such  a  man  look  like?  Face  after  face,  Dyer  searched  in  his 
eagerness  to  get  a  look  at  the  'Great  Nullifier.' 

His  appearance  satisfied  Dyer  completely.  With  his  masses  of  hair  and 
gaunt  figure,  the  piercing  eyes  and  strong,  stern  features,  he  looked, 
asserted  the  young  abolitionist,  like  'a  perfect  image  and  embodiment  of 
the  devil.'  Had  Dyer  found  a  copy  of  his  likeness  in  Paradise  Lost,  he 
would  have  accepted  it  as  the  masterpiece  of  an  artist  with  'a  peculiar 
genius  for  Satanic  portraiture.' 

Benton,  meanwhile,  had  been  discussing  a  petition  that  the  Wilmot 
Proviso  be  applied  to  the  citizens  of  New  Mexico  territory,  a  petition 
which,  it  was  generally  suspected,  he  himself  had  fathered.  Suddenly  the 
'scattered  and  indifferent  attention  of  the  Senate  focussed.'  The  murmur- 
ing undertone  of  conversation  ceased.  Calhoun  had  risen  to  his  feet.  Every 
eye  was  turned  upon  him.  The  petition,  he  declared,  was  'impudent  and 
insolent,'  an  'insult  to  the  Senate  and  the  country.' 

Yet  all  was  said  with  'an  exquisite  courtesy.'  The  'bell-like  sweetness 
and  resonance  of  his  voice,'  his  ideas,  presented  so  clearly  that  no  one 
could  help  but  understand  them,  were  a  'revelation'  to  Dyer.  'Spontane- 
ously,' he  wished  that  Calhoun  were  an  abolitionist,  'so  that  we  could 
have  him  talking  on  our  side.' 

Guilt-stricken,  he  glanced  at  Benton.  But  time  had  done  no  more  to 
appease  Benton's  'rancorous'  hatred  of  his  old  enemy  from  South  Carolina 
than  to  moderate  his  feelings  toward  Clay.  With  salty  relish  he  rolled  out 
epithets  at  his  opponent:  'the  Great  Secessionist,'  'the  Great  Nullifier,'  the 
'Great  Disunionist'  His  words  were  bitter,  deliberately  insulting.  Dyer 
waited  to  see  the  flare-up  of  Calhoun's  anger.  But  'he  treated  it  with 
absolute  indifference.'  Not  by  motion  or  look  did  he  reveal  that  he  had 


THE  STATESMAN  AND  THE  MAN  461 

heard  a  single  word.  Thus  did  Calhoun's  hard-won  self-control  now  stand 
by  him.12 

Finally  Calhoun  resumed  the  floor.  Occasionally  he  'warmed  into 
vehemence/  but  his  courtesy  never  waned.  And  in  the  gallery  sat  Dyer, 
confused,  indignant  at  himself.  Against  his  every  principle,  against  his  will, 
all  his  'personal  feelings'  were  drawn  to  Calhoun's  side.  Even  the  Caro- 
linian's face  seemed  to  have  undergone  a  change.  No  longer  did  he  look 
like  a  devil,  but  a  sincere  patriot,  conscientiously  devoted  to  what  'he 
believed  to  be  right.'  Horrified,  Dyer  struggled  for  his  bearings.  It  was  no 
use.  'The  change  went  on  in  spite  of  all  that  I  could  do.' 18 

Calhoun  sensed  the  young  man's  response.  And  on  New  Year's  Day, 
1849,  Dyer  received  an  invitation  to  visit  the  Southern  Senator  at  his 
lodgings.  Calhoun  was  ill  that  day,  too  ill  even  to  leave  his  rooms.  But 
his  active  mind  craved  employment,  and  having  been  struck  with  the  ease 
with  which  Dyer  transcribed  the  rapid  flow  of  Senate  debate,  he  had 
requested  the  young  reporter  to  give  him  a  lesson  in  shorthand. 

The  visit  lasted  from  noon  until  sundown.  Gently  Calhoun  chaffed  his 
visitor  for  a  'mistake'  common  to  most  newsmen  who  reported  his  speeches, 
which  'annoyed'  him. 

'What  is  that  mistake?'  Dyer  asked. 

'They  make  me  say  "this  Nation,"  instead  of  "this  Union,"  Calhoun 
replied.  'I  never  use  the  word  Nation.*  We  are  not  a  nation,  but  a  Union, 
a  confederacy  of  equal  and  sovereign  States.  England  is  a  nation,  but  the 
United  States  are  not  a  nation.' 

The  gates  were  opened  for  political  discussion.  Question  after  question 
Dyer  fired  at  his  host,  and  Calhoun  answered  them,  gradually  unfolding 
to  the  fascinated  young  man  his  entire  political  philosophy.  'Charmed 
with  his  manner/  Dyer  relaxed,  and  impulsively  blurted  out  the  one 
question  that  was  actually  on  his  mind.  'What  kind  of  a  man,'  he  asked, 
'was  General  Jackson?' 

A  change  flashed  over  Calhoun's  face.  Dyer  could  have  bitten  out  his 
tongue.  'Had  I  not  been  so  young  and  inexperienced  ...  I  could  not  have 
asked  such  a  question.'  Calhoun  was  silent.  Dyer  looked  into  that  white, 
quiet  face.  There  was  no  bitterness  there  and  no  hatred,  only  the  lost, 
withdrawn  look  of  a  man  steeped  in  memories.  Minutes  passed.  At  last  he 
roused  himself,  and  the  look  in  his  'luminous'  eyes  and  the  gentleness  of 
his  voice,  Dyer  could  remember  forty  years  afterward.  'General  Jackson 
was  a  great  man,'  he  said.14 

Dyer  was  won  completely.  He  studied  into  his  hero's  early  years.  'No 
man  in  America/  he  concluded,  'ever  started  his  career  with  brighter, 
nobler  promise  than  did  that  gifted,  pure-souled  young  South  Carolinian.' 
How  could  such  a  man  believe  in  human  slavery?  What  had  happened  to 

*  Calhoun  did  frequently  use  the  word  nation  in  his  early  speeches. 


462  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

him?  Harriet  Martineau  had  called  him  'a  cast-iron  man';  yes,  he  could 
see  how  a  stranger  might  have  received  that  impression.15  His  ideas  on  dif- 
ferent subjects,  Dyer  noted,  were  so  'rigidly  separated  from  one  another, 
that  the  man  himself  seemed  to  be  a  different  personage  at  different  times, 
according  to  the  question  .  .  .  before  him.  His  faculties  .  .  .  were  a  con- 
federation, and  everyone  of  them  was  a  sovereign  faculty  which  could  think 
and  act  for  itself/ 16 

The  more  Dyer  knew  Calhoun,  the  better  he  liked  him.  Calhoun's  cousin, 
James  Edward,  had  noted  that  he  was  'never  exacting,  despite  his  force 
of  character.7  If  'a  man  was  attacked  in  his  presence,  he  would  seek  for 
something  to  justify  praise.' 17  To  Dyer  his  'kindness  of  heart'  seemed  'in- 
exhaustible.' He  seemed  'so  morally  clean  and  spiritually  pure  .  .  .  that 
it  was  a  pleasure  to  have  one's  soul  get  close  to  his  soul — a  feeling,'  Dyer 
hastened  to  add,  'that  I  never  had  for  any  other  man.'  To  the  hero-worship- 
ing Westerner  there  was  a  kind  of  elemental  wholesomeness  about  the 
great  Carolinian,  'as  fresh  and  bracing  as  a  breeze  from  the  prairie,  the 
ocean,  or  the  mountain.  .  .  .  He  was  inexpressibly  refined,  gentle,  win- 
ning; yet  he  was  strong  and  thoroughly  manly  .  .  .  invincibleness  per- 
vading his  gentleness.  ...  I  admired  Benton;  I  admired  Clay  still  more; 
I  admired  Webster,  on  the  intellectual  side,  most  of  all;  but  I  loved  Cal- 
houn.' 18 


Reading  over  Dyer's  effusions  today,  it  is  easy  to  pigeonhole  him  as  a 
mere  psychological  case-study  in  hero-worship.  But  this  starry-eyed  en- 
thusiast cannot  be  dismissed  so  easily.  For  on  an  inflated  and  overeulogistic 
scale,  he  had  succumbed  to  a  force  in  Calhoun  which  can  neither  be  under- 
stood nor  denied,  but,  above  all,  cannot  be  ignored.  For  in  it  is  the  key 
to  his  power.  Von  Hoist,  Calhoun's  most  critical  biographer,  in  reducing 
his  subject's  personal  traits  to  three,  lists  as  the  most  dominant  his 
'especial  fascination  over  young  men.' 19 

It  was  uncanny.  With  political  opponents,  it  was  even  deadly.  For,  al- 
though it  was  CaJhoun's  purpose  to  win  men's  intellects,  too  often  he  could 
only  succeed  in  confusing  their  emotions  as  he  had  done  with  poor  Oliver 
Dyer. 

Nor  was  Dyer  the  only  abolitionist  to  succumb  to  what  Pinckney  had 
described  as  Calhoun's  'ethereal,  indescribible  charm.' 20  There  was  young 
John  Wentworth,  the  'infant  of  the  House  of  Representatives,'  who  had 
stood  horror-stricken  before  the  huge  stockade  near  the  lower  gate  of 
the  Capitol,  where  human  merchandise  was  herded  behind  a  fence,  like 
cattle  in  a  stockyard.  His  nerves  had  quivered  to  the  harsh  voice  of  the 
auctioneer,  the  naked  black  flesh  cowering  before  the  gaze  of  the  crowd, 
even  the  very  chewing  of  the  'jaw-breaker'  crackers  which  the  auctioneer 


XXVH  THE  STATESMAN   AND   THE  MAN  463 

would  cram  into  the  slaves'  mouths  to  show  how  strong  their  teeth  were. 
And  it  was  as  the  avowed  defender  of  this  human  serfdom  that  he  saw 
and  heard  Calhoun  for  the  first  time.  'Mr.  Calhoun  spoke  like  a  college 
professor/  he  noted.  'His  position  was  stationary  and  he  used  no  gestures. 
His  pale  countenance  indicated  the  cloister.  His  voice  was  silvery  and 
attractive,  but  very  earnest.'  And  as  the  young  man  listened  to  those 
plausible  premises  and  the  even  more  plausible  deductions,  his  resolves 
broke  down.  Confronted  with  Calhoun's  logic,  it  was  impossible  to  avoid 
his  conclusion.  'If  a  stranger  should  select  the  Senator,  irrespective  of 
doctrine,'  he  asserted,  'who  came  nearest  to  being  a  saint,'  he  would  select 
Mr.  Calhoun. 

As  he  had  done  with  Dyer,  so,  too,  with  John  Wentworth,  Calhoun  sensed 
the  young  man's  response.  So  Wentworth,  too,  received  an  invitation  to 
Calhoun's  rooms.  Calhoun  gave  him  no  harangue,  none  of  the  lectures  with 
which  he  often  indulged  his  admiring  listeners.  Instead,  he  spoke  of  Went- 
wortlrs  own  Chicago,  of  Fort  Dearborn  and  his  work  with  the  officers  there 
during  his  days  in  the  War  Department.  His  language  was  'seductive';  his 
eyes  shone  as  he  spoke  of  the  Mississippi  and  the  Great  Lakes,  the  'inland 
seas  of  America';  of  the  vast,  untapped  West,  'the  natural  ally  of  the 
South.'  Wentworth  sat  enthralled.  'He  was,'  he  said  afterward,  'the  most 
charming  man  in  conversation  I  ever  heard.' 

Hours  later,  Wentworth  stepped  into  the  night.  In  one  hand  he  held  a 
present  Calhoun  had  given  him,  an  autographed  copy  of  the  Senator's 
life  and  speeches.  Like  so  many  before  and  after  him,  for  that  night,  at 
least,  John  Wentworth  was  a  lost  man.  Abstractedly  he  started  down  the 
street  and  ran  straight  into  Senator  Thomas  Hart  Benton.  One  look  at  the 
young  man's  face  and  Benton  guessed  where  he  had  been.  His  'rage  was 
unbounded.'  He  declared  that  he  could  repeat  every  word  Calhoun  had 
said.  'It  was  Mr.  Calhoun's  custom,'  he  explained,  'to  early  procure  inter- 
views with  young  men  and  to  instill  into  their  minds  the  seeds  of  nullifica- 
tion.'21 

The  charge  was  true.  As  one  South  Carolina  historian  summed  it  up: 
'Calhoun  possessed  pre-eminently  that  power  of  personality  which  enforces 
ideas,  independent  of  their  wisdom.  It  is  this  personality  which  still  holds 
the  imagination.'  It  was  the  same  power  which  would  be  felt  almost  a 
hundred  years  later  in  the  personal  appeal  of  Franklin  Delano  Roosevelt. 

And  with  it  all  was  'that  burning  .intellectual  energy,'  that  resilience, 
that  high-powered  tension  of  a  mind  that  never  grew  old.  Webster  himself 
was  awed  by  the  power  of  Calhoun's  intellect,  declaring  that  he  could 
have  'demolished  Newton,  Calvin,'  or  even  John  Locke  as  a  logician.  Dr. 
Abraham  Venable  of  North  Carolina,  called  in  as  Calhoun's  physician, 
instantly  declared  that  he  had  'ceased  to  wonder'  at  the  effect  his  exalted 
intellect  had  upon  his  followers.  'How  could  you  put  that  man  in  com- 
petition with  anybody  else?'  exclaimed  enthusiastic  young  Albert  Rhett 


464  JOHN    C.    CALHOUN 

of  Charleston,  on  meeting  Calhoun  for  the  first  time.  'Such  an  intellect  .  .  . 
is  a  more  wonderful  creation  than  any  mountain  on  earth.'  Looking  into  the 
depths  of  those  steady  eyes  with  their  strange  power  to  draw  and  hold 
your  own,  feeling  the  heat  of  that  ardent  mind,  men  were  trapped  by  a 
power  they  could  not  analyze,  a  force  they  could  not  understand.22 

Calhoun  was  aware  of  his  power.  Did  he  have  any  ulterior  motive  in 
exerting  it?  Undoubtedly.  But  it  was  not  to  win  votes  for  himself;  it  was 
to  impress  men  with  the  righteousness  of  his  cause,  so  to  fire  their  imagina- 
tions that,  dazzled  by  Calhoun,  they  would  take  up  the  cause  that  he  held 
'dearer  than  light  or  life.'  He  had  pledged  himself  to  nothing  less  than  a 
single-handed  battle  to  reverse  the  will  of  the  American  people. 

The  scheme  was  fanatic,  of  course.  Yet  the  measure  of  Calhoun's  great- 
ness is  how  nearly  he  approached  his  goal.  'No  man  in  America,'  declared 
the  wondering  Wentworth,  'ever  exerted  the  influence  over  this  country 
that  Mr.  Calhoun  did.'  * 

Not  force,  but  persuasion,  was  Calhoun's  weapon  now;  not  anger,  but 
gentleness.  The  bitterness,  the  storm  and  the  fury  that  had  swept  over 
him  in  the  thirties,  was  harnessed  to  his  one  overwhelming  purpose. 
Through  grim  experience  he  was  learning  what  lesser  men  knew  by  in- 
stinct: that  the  most  flawless  logic  ever  devised  could  not  convince  a  man 
against  his  will.  To  attempt  robbery  of  a  man's  beliefs  only  aroused  his 
determination  to  cling  the  more  closely  to  them. 

Calhoun  at  late  last  had  come  to  the  knowledge  that  few  men  were 
creatures  of  reason  like  himself.  They  were  creatures  of  prejudice,  and 
their  reasoning  consisted  in  finding  defenses  for  their  prejudices.  Logically 
Calhoun  could  prove  that  disunion  and  Southern  destruction  would  be 
the  result  of  the  abolitionist  frenzy.  But  how  could  he  turn  men's  wills 
against  abolition?  Only  by  winning  the  individual  leaders.  How  could  he 
arouse  young  Southerners  to  the  danger  that  confronted  them?  If  he  won 
their  hearts,  then  only  could  he  conquer  their  intellects.  He  had  realized  all 
except  the  most  important  thing  of  all.  He  did  not  realize  that,  for  every 
individual  he  convinced  against  the  will  of  the  majority,  the  stiffer  would 
become  the  will  of  the  majority  not  to  be  convinced. 

With  men  equipped  to  appreciate  it,  Calhoun's  intellectual  power  was 
as  deadly  as  his  emotional.  Converts  like  Orestes  Brownson,  who  preferred 
Calhoun's  unabashed  adherence  to  the  cause  of  slavery  to  the  hypocritical 
mouthings  of  men  who  saw  slavery  only  in  labor  systems  other  than  their 
own,  were  frightening  to  the  whole  liberal  school  of  American  thought.  Cal- 
houn's ideas  had  long  been  popular  among  Southern  college  professors, 
who  were  systematically  drilling  them  into  the  minds  of  their  students. 
But  by  the  eighteen-forties  they  were  gaining  'strong'  footholds  among 
'scholars  of  the  North,'  such  as  Dartmouth's  President  Nathan  Lord,  who 
'seemed  incapable  of  resisting  the  seductive  reasoning  of  his  perceptive, 
comprehensive  mind.'  * 


XXVH  THE  STATESMAN  AND   THE  MAN  465 

'If  he  could  but  talk  with  every  man,  he  would  .  .  .  have  the  whole 
United  States  on  his  side/  it  was  declared.  He  was  fighting  with  the  energy 
of  a  hundred  men;  he  was  winning  every  battle;  and  with  every  battle 
won,  the  certainty  increased  that  he  would  lose  the  war. 

But  he  fought  on,  nevertheless.  By  day  and  by  night  he  was  accessible 
to  all  who  sought  him;  and  men  found  in  his  simplicity  a  blessed  relief 
from  the  lordly  Congressmen  with  their  pompous  ways.  But  these  same 
Congressmen,  Wentworth  asserts,  would  not  permit  their  constituents  to 
leave  Washington  without  asking:  'Have  you  seen  Mr.  Calhoun?  Do  you 
think  of  leaving  without  seeing  Mr.  Calhoun?7  ** 

Bitterly  his  friends  resented  the  time  and  energy  he  lavished  upon  men 
who  meant  nothing  to  him.  What  did  it  mean?  They  knew  how  self- 
contained  he  was,  how  he  shrank  both  from  'the  praise  and  gaze  of  the 
multitude.'  They  knew  the  limitations  of  his  physical  strength;  and  that 
once  at  home,  he  would  scarcely  stir  from  his  plantation  all  summer  long. 
'I  am  an  object  of  as  great  curiosity  to  people  outside  of  a  circle  of  five 
miles  in  this  State,  as  anywhere  else,'  he  once  said.  'Not  one  man  in  a 
hundred  in  this  State  ever  saw  me.' 2e  Where  Henry  Clay  would  cross  the 
street  to  meet  a  crowd,  Calhoun  would  cross  to  avoid  one.  In  later  years 
this  passion  for  privacy  became  a  complex  with  him.  If  he  stopped  at  an 
inn  and  was  told  that  it  was  full,  he  would  leave  immediately,  although 
the  mere  whisper  of  his  name  would  have  given  him  the  freedom  of  the 
house.  Nor  did  he  tell  his  name  to  the  wayside  farmer  who  denied  him  a 
glass  of  water  'to  quench  his  feverish  thirst,'  although,  when  the  man  dis- 
covered that  he  had  refused  'the  great  Mr.  Calhoun,'  he  declared  that  he 
would  have  run  miles  to  'gratify  his  wish.'  ^ 


He  was  one  of  the  most  difficult  'of  all  American  leaders  to  understand.' 
To  Amos  Kendall  he  seemed  the  most  inconsistent  of  statesmen,  although 
always  insisting  that  'he  was  entirely  consistent.'  What  could  you  make  of 
such  a  man:  a  nationalist,  who  made  a  holy  cause  out  of  states'  rights;  'a 
legalist  who  understood  the  law  only  as  a  defense  against  majorities'; 
a  reactionary  who  insisted  that  slavery  was  the  soundest  foundation  of 
liberty — and  a  liberal  who  as  early  as  1848  called  for  'dispensing  altogether 
with  electors,'  and  for  the  voters  'to  vote  by  electoral  districts  direct  for 
the  President  and  the  Vice-President,  the  plurality  of  votes  in  each  district 
to  count  one,'  and  the  state  to  be  recorded  in  favor  of  the  candidate 
winning  a  majority  of  the  districts?  tt 

Calhoun's  smaller-minded  friends  found  comfort  in  checking  off  the 
great  man's  undeniable  faults:  his  moments  of  'morbid  melancholy,'  his 
intellectual  arrogance,  his  willingness  to  be  contradicted  only  when  con- 


466  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 

fident  that  he  could  refute  the  contradiction,  the  'hasty  desultory  reading' 
with  which  he  supported  his  ideas.  They  charged  that  he  'thought  for  the 
State/  vengefully  crushing  out  'all  independence  of  thought  below  him.'  29 

This  is  a  charge  difficult  to  prove.  Scarcely  a  prominent  South  Caro- 
linian of  the  day — Legare,  Poinsett,  Huger,  McDuffie,  Perry,  Petigru, 
Preston,  Thompson,  Pickens — avoided  political  differences  with  Calhoun 
and  they  all  survived,  politically  as  well  as  personally.  With  Senator  Wil- 
liam Preston,  who  had  so  admired  Calhoun  in  youth,  the  break  was  par- 
ticularly sharp.  It  was  during  the  Sub-Treasury  fight,  in  which  Preston 
'acted  with  Clay  throughout'  and  attacked  Calhoun  with  bitterness.  Cal- 
houn declined  to  answer  him.  'Nothing,'  he  had  declared,  would  force  him 
to  forget  'what  is  due  the  State'  and  'to  exhibit  the  Spectacle  of  her  two 
Representatives  in  the  Senate  quarreling  with  each  other.' so 

Calhoun  was  not  spiteful.  He  was  a  good  hater,  as  his  feuds  with  Benton 
and  Jackson  show,  but  his  animosities  were  political,  not  personal,  and 
hi  all  the  reams  of  his  private  correspondence  there  are  few  lines  of  venge- 
fulness.  He  was  more  hurt  than  angered  by  unjust  attack,  but  he  wasted 
little  energy  in  battling  his  opponents.  Nor  did  he  need  to  do  so  in  South 
Carolina;  the  state  took  care  of  them  for  him.  South  Carolina  would 
tolerate  no  animosity  toward  John  C.  Calhoun.  More  than  one  opponent 
actually  left  the  state,  so  vehement  was  the  opposition  to  all  who  declined 
to  pay  tribute  in  'The  Kingdom  of  Calhoun.'  Preston's  brilliance  achieved 
his  re-election  to  his  Senate  seat,  but  many  of  his  'warmest'  friends  re- 
fused to  speak  to  him  again  after  his  attack  on  Calhoun.31 

Yet  even  the  loyal  Rhett  felt  that  Calhoun  parted  too  easily  from  friends 
whose  principles  differed  from  his  own.  He  was  loyal  personally,  yet  when 
the  choice  came  between  friendship  and  principle,  he  did  not  hesitate.  Con- 
versely, intense  as  his  hatreds  might  be,  as  with  Van  Buren  in  1840,  he 
could  put  them  aside  in  the  pursuit  of  his  goal.  Issues,  not  personalities, 
dominated  himT 


xxvni 

Compromise  With  Destiny 


No  COMPROMISE!  This  was  the  message  that  Calhoun  had  brought  back 
to  South  Carolina  in  the  spring  of  1847.  No  compromise  with  destiny! 
Unity  alone  could  save  the  South  now.  'Let  us  show  at  least  as  much  spirit 
in  defending  our  rights/  he  pleaded,  'as  the  Abolitionists  have  evinced  in 
denouncing  them/  x 

He  had  arrived  in  Charleston  on  March  7.  A  'warm,  and  enthusiastic* 
reception  awaited  him.  On  the  night  of  the  ninth  he  spoke  from  the  stage 
of  the  Harmony  Hall  Theater;  he  was  hoarse  from  a  severe  cold,  but  al- 
ready the  meeting  had  been  postponed  two  days  and  could  not  be  delayed 
longer.  The  theater  was  packed,  and  the  street  outside;  hundreds  had 
been  turned  away.2  Those  within  listened  with  strained  attention. 

'Let  us  profit  by  the  example  of  the  abolitionist  party/  and  like  them 
'make  the  destruction  of  our  institutions  the  .  .  .  issue/  was  Calhoun's 
plea.  If  slavery  was  evil,  it  was  an  evil  in  the  abstract,  just  as  government 
was  an  evil,  but  preventing  more  evil  than  it  inflicted.  For  slavery,  good 
or  bad  as  it  might  be,  was  the  only  means,  so  Calhoun  contended,  'by 
which  two  races  so  dissimilar  .  .  .  can  live  together,  nearly  in  equal  num- 
bers, in  peace.' 

Tarty  madness/  Calhoun  charged,  was  behind  the  abolitionist  move- 
ment. So  evenly  divided  were  the  parties  in  the  North  that  the  small 
abolitionist  group  held  the  balance  of  power  and  could  even  force  the  nom- 
ination of  Presidential  candidates  favorable  to  its  interests.  Thus,  to  be 
elected,  a  Northern  candidate  must  espouse  abolitionism. 

Power  could  be  countered  by  power.  In  the  North  both  parties  were 
united  against  the  South.  Hence,  in  the  South,  both  parties  must  unite 
against  the  North,  forming  'a  new  constitutional  party.'  Thus,  if  the 
Northern  parties  found  themselves  unable  to  win  a  victory  in  the  Electoral 
College,  one  or  the  other,  composed  of  those  who  consider  slavery  evil  but 
'love  the  Constitution/  would  swing  over  to  the  Southern  side. 

Economically, -Calhoun  reminded  the  audience,  it  was  the  North  that 
profited  from  the  Union.  The  South  could  take  care  of  itself.  But  the  South 
had  no  'desire  to  be  forced  on  our  resources.  .  .  .  Our  object  is  perfect 
equality  with  other  members  of  the  Union.'  Delay  would  prove  'fatal.'  Now 


468  JOHN    C.    CALHOUN 

'the  political  ties'  were  still  strong.  But  further  bitterness,  further  aliena- 
tion, North  and  South,  would  narrow  the  choice  to  two:  subjection  or  sub- 
mission. 

'We  have  the  Constitution  on  our  side,'  Calhoun  concluded.  'I  have 
never  known  truth  .  .  .  fail  ...  in  the  end.' 3 

Applause  thundered  against  his  ears.  Glowing,  exhilarated,  he  left  the 
stage.  Floride  was  waiting  for  him.  They  returned  to  their  rooms,  where  he 
wrote  a  long  letter  to  Duff  Green,  pouring  out  his  triumph.  'I  have  just 
returned  from  addressing  a  very  large  and  enthusiastick  meeting  ...  the 
largest  ever  held  here.  ...  I  never  have  been  received  even  here  with 
greater  unanimity  and  enthusiasm.'  * 

But  the  party  leaders  were  not  convinced.  In  Washington,  a  few  weeks 
later,  President  Polk  confided  to  his  diary  that  'Mr.  Calhoun  has  become 
perfectly  desperate  in  his  aspiration  to  the  Presidency,  and  has  seized  upon 
this  sectional  question  as  the  only  means.'  He  was  not  only  'unpatriotick 
and  mischievous,  but  wicked.  I  now  entertain  a  worse  opinion  of  Mr.  Cal- 
houn than  .  .  .  ever.  ...  He  is  wholly  selfish.  A  few  years  ago  he  ... 
threatened  to  ...  dissolve  the  Union  on  account  of  the  tariff.'  Now  'he 
selects  slavery  to  agitate  the  country.' 5 

Scarcely  less  scathing  were  the  comments  of  Calhoun's  own  friend,  James 
H.  Hammond,  who  wrote  William  Gilmore  Simms:  'His  object  is  to  gain 
Southern  votes  for  himself  for  President.  ...  It  will  be  said  that  he 
agitates  the  slavery  question  for  selfish  purposes.  .  .  ,'  And  when  in 
August,  1848,  Calhoun  braved  heat  and  fever  to  return  to  Charleston  and 
repeat  his  warnings  that  secession  would  be  the  logical  result  of  abolitionist 
agitation,  the  clamor  against  him  grew  louder.  His  attempts  to  restrain  the 
public  demand  for  a  Southern  convention,  or  at  least  to  have  some  state 
other  than  South  Carolina  initiate  the  call,  drew  a  bitter  taunt  from  the 
fiery  Robert  Toombs:  'Calhoun  stands  off  ...  in  order  to  make  a  party 
all  his  own,  on  slavery.  .  .  .  Poor  old  dotard,  to  suppose  he  could  get  a 
party  now  on  any  terms.' 8 

There  was  certainly  a  shade  of  truth,  if  not  of  justice,  in  these  accusa- 
tions. A  Southern  convention  or  a  Southern  party  would  focus  the  united 
opinion  of  the  section  against  the  North,  but  the  party  could  only  profit 
the  ambitions  of  Calhoun.  It  is  preposterous  to  assume  that  he  whipped 
up  the  slavery  question  for  the  purpose  of  riding  into  the  White  House  on 
it;  but  undoubtedly  he  was  willing  to  take  advantage  of  an  existing  situa- 
tion to  further  his  Presidential  chances. 


Calhoun's  love  was  for  the  South  and  the  way  of  life  in  the  South.  He 
made  no  secret  of  this.  'Strong  as  is  my  attachment  to  the  Union,  my 
attachment  to  liberty  and  the  section  where  Providence  has  cast  my  lot  is 


XXVHI  NO    COMPROMISE   WITH   DESTINY  469 

still  stronger.' 7  Yet,  as  Jefferson  Davis  said,  his  'affections  clung  tenaciously 
to  the  Union.'  Nearly  'forty  years  of  my  life  have  been  devoted  to  the 
service  of  the  Union/  he  could  pridefully  declare.  'If  I  shall  have  any  place 
in  the  memory  of  posterity,  it  will  be  in  consequence  of  my  deep  attach- 
ment to  it  and  our  federal  system  of  government.' s  To  him  the  Union 
meant  far  more  than  the  mere  linking  together  of  the  states;  it  meant  the 
Constitution,  embodying  the  liberties  in  the  government.  Furthermore,  it 
was  within  the  Union  that  his  beloved  South  had  flowered.  For  the  Union 
to  be  destroyed,  either  through  consolidation  by  the  North  or  by  secession 
of  the  South,  would  mean  that  a  great  experiment  in  freedom  had  failed. 

The  federal  theory,  Calhoun  felt,  was  America's  unique  contribution  to 
government.  And  the  very  essence  of  the  federal  system  was  its  protection 
of  minority  rights.  Calhoun  knew  that  the  world  was  watching  the  Ameri- 
can experiment.  Could  a  country  of  peoples,  diverse  in  their  economic, 
social,  and  even  moral  patterns,  dwell  together  hi  a  political  Union  for  the 
general  welfare  of  all;  with  each  group  free  to  live  as  it  would,  so  long  as 
it  violated  none  of  the  privileges  and  rights  of  another  group?  This  was 
what  American  freedom  meant  to  Calhoun  and  to  the  South,  and  this  was 
what  he  thought  it  meant  to  the  Founding  Fathers. 

And  if  the  South  seceded  to  preserve  those  constitutional  rights  which 
she  had  once  thought  would  be  protected  within  the  limits  of  the  Union, 
it  would  still  mean  that  the  great  experiment  had  failed.  Only  as  a  last 
resort  would  the  thought  of  secession  be  tolerable.  For  he  explained:  'As 
I  believe  a  good  government  to  be  the  greatest  of  earthly  blessings,  I 
should  be  averse  to  the  overthrow  of  ours,  even  if  I  thought  it  greatly  in- 
ferior to  what  I  do.' 9 

Once  more,  too,  the  other  side  of  the  picture  appeared.  Slavery  had  en- 
dured under  the  protection  of  the  American  flag;  but  how  would  it  fare 
isolated  in  a  Southern  Confederacy?  Would  a  world,  outraged  by  the 
anachronism  of  slavery  hi  any  place  or  form,  welcome  into  the  family  of 
nations  a  country  avowedly  built  upon  that  foundation?  Politically  and 
economically  might  not  an  independent  South  meet  world-wide  ostracism? 
And  in  a  severed  Union  Southern  'rights'  in  the  territories  could  scarcely 
be  more  than  academic.  Calhoun  was  too  honest  and  farsighted  to  dupe 
himself  into  the  belief  that  slavery  could  be  preserved  by  destruction  of 
the  Union.  At  best  it  could  only  exist  under  the  protection  of  the  Union. 
Yet  he  did  not  shrink  from  the  final  alternative.  Disunion  he  saw  as  a 
threat  rather  than  a  program;  but  he  was  aware  that  for  the  threat  to  be 
effective  in  the  eyes  of  the  North,  the  South  must  be  united. 


Slavery  was  only  a  part  of  his  program.  He  defended  slavery,  not  only 
because  he  deemed  it  essential  to  the  Southern  way  of  life,  but  because  the 


470  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

ability  of  the  South  to  maintain  it  against  the  will  of  the  Northern  numeri- 
cal majority  was  a  test  case.  Calhoun  pitted  states'  rights  against  consolida- 
tion, because  states'  rights  were  the  cornerstone  of  the  federal  system,  and 
only  under  a  federal  system  could  the  true  Union,  and  the  South  within  it, 
be  preserved.  Although  he  was  aware  of  the  need  of  a  central  government, 
consolidation,  with  its  unrestrained  popular  democracy  and  unrestrained 
majority  rule,  held  for  him  the  same  terror  that  it  had  held  for  the  Founding 
Fathers.  And  now:  'God  knows  we  are  tending  too  rapidly  towards  con- 
solidation.' 10 

He  staked  his  lines  on  the  offensive.  Not  the  South,  which  defended 
only  its  constitutional  rights,  but  the  Northern  abolitionists,  were  the 
fomenters  of  disunion.  To  destroy  the  rights  of  the  South  was  to  destroy 
the  living  spirit  of  the  Union.  Passionately  Calhoun,  all  through  the  winters 
of  1847,  '48,  and  '49,  pled  with  the  Senate  to  face  'the  magnitude  of  the 
existing  danger.'  As  early  as  ten  years  before,  he  had  seen,  'clear  as  the 
noonday  sun,  the  fatal  consequences  which  must  follow  if  the  present 
disease  be  not  .  .  .  arrested.  .  .  .  This' — and  he  stressed  his  words — 'is 
the  only  question  of  sufficient  magnitude  ...  to  divide  this  Union,  and 
divide  it,  it  will,  or  drench  the  country  in  blood.' 1X 

So  intense  was  Calhoun's  indignation  at  the  abolitionist  'fanaticks'  that 
it  even  carried  over  into  his  social  relations.  He  who,  according  to  Went- 
worth,  never  'did  or  said  an  uncivil  thing/  now  worked  out  an  elaborate 
code  for  dealing  with  men  whose  opinions  would  endanger  the  Union.  If 
one  of  them  were  to  ask  him  a  civil  question,  he  would  give  him  a  civil 
answer,  but  'nothing  more.'  He  would  not  himself  start  a  conversation  with 
one.  If  an  abolitionist  offered  him  his  hand,  'he  should  take  it.'  But  he 
would  never  offer  his  own  hand.  Wentworth  himself,  who  during  his  ad- 
vocacy of  the  Texas  annexation  had  'received  a  great  many  hearty  shakes 
from  the  hand  of  Mr.  Calhoun,'  now  found  that  he  'received  only  those 
shakes  which  I  went  after,  knowing  the  terms.' 

To  the  horror  of  Washington  society,  Calhoun's  followers  en  masse 
adopted  the  new  code.  Thus  was  added  one  more  difficulty  to  the  'mixed' 
parties  of  Northerners  and  Southerners,  which  had  already  developed 
something  of  the  atmosphere  of  a  smouldering  powder  barrel.  Calhoun  him- 
self indulged  his  whim  with  little  offense,  but  not  all  his  supporters  had 
'the  culture  and  the  refinement  that  the  great  South  Carolinian  had.'12 

Nor  had  Calhoun  patience  with  followers  who  became  hardened  to  the 
abolitionist  assaults.  When  no  rebuke  was  offered  a  bill  seeking  protection 
for  an  abolitionist  paper,  Calhoun  arose  and  wearily  gave  the  'word  of 
command.'  This,  he  declared,  was  nothing  more  than  ca  masked  attack 
upon  the  great  institutions  of  the  South,  upon  which  not  only  its  prosperity, 
but  its  very  existence  depends.'  He  had  hoped  that  the  younger  men  might 
'rise  to  the  South's  defense.' 

There  was  pathos  in  his  voice.  It  seemed  'as  though  the  veteran  sentinel 


XXVHI  NO   COMPROMISE   WITH   DESTINY  471 

had  grown  weary  of  his  lonely  watchtower.'  Hastily  Jefferson  Davis  as- 
sured the  Senator  from  South  Carolina  that  it  was  only  'from  deference 
to  him,  who  has  so  long  .  .  .  stood  foremost  in  defense  of  the  South/  that 
he  had  remained  silent.  He  had  only  wished  to  follow  'the  indignation 
which  he  has  expressed  so  well.7 1S 


Calhoun  was  not  always  left  to  fight  his  battles  alone.  Not  even  the  law 
was  safeguard  for  the  Southerners  now.  Virtual  'nullification'  by  Massa- 
chusetts and  other  Northern  states  of  the  constitutional  provisions  for  the 
return  of  fugitive  slaves  put  the  bitterness  of  the  entire  slaveholding 
South  beyond  measure.  Even  Calhoun's  colleague,  Andrew  Butler,  the 
seldom-speaking  'other  Senator  from  South  Carolina/  burst  into  a  heated 
attack  of  retribution. 

In  his  seat  Daniel  Webster  stirred.  A  murmur  rippled  across  the  surface 
of  the  Chamber.  The  great  domed  forehead  began  to  rise  above  the  heads 
of  the  crowd. 

'Webster's  up,  and  he's  mad/  was  the  message  flashed  by  rumor  tele- 
graph all  over  the  Capitol.  The  gallery  began  to  fill.  Webster  stood  await- 
ing his  audience,  head  bowed  and  hands  clasped  behind  his  back.  At  last 
he  spoke.  He  looked  straight  at  Butler.  'If  the  honorable  member  shall 
.  .  .  inform  the  Senate  ...  on  what  occasion'  Massachusetts  'has  broken 
the  compromises  of  the  Constitution,  he  will  find  in  me  a  COMBATANT  on 
that  question.' 

It  was  the  word  'combatant'  that  counted.  He  spoke  it,  Dyer  declared, 
as  if  it  weighed  ten  tons.  And  as  he  spoke,  he  lunged  forward,  his  dark 
face  aglow,  his  arms  raised.  And  in  that  moment  of  outrage  and  passion, 
to  one  observer,  he  seemed  only  to  show  what  'a  magnificent  human  be- 
ing God's  creative  hand  can  fashion/ 

Butler  was  getting  up.  He  was  muttering:  Til  answer  the  gentleman; 
I'll  answer  the  gentleman.' 

Alarmed,  Calhoun  sprang  to  his  friend's  side.  But  it  took  all  his  strength 
and  that  of  several  other  Senators  to  hold  the  enraged  Butler  in  his  seat. 
Slowly  the  Senate  quieted.  Only  one  man  could  handle  Daniel  Webster, 
and  he  turned  to  him  now,  uttering  a  few,  soft-spoken  sentences,  with  an 
air  of  almost  childlike  innocence,  and  yet  with  the  most  'consummate 
skill.' 14  As  if  by  sleight-of-hand,  he  turned  the  whole  angry  controversy 
into  the  closely  reasoned,  constitutional  argument,  in  which  he  and  Webster 
had  engaged  so  many  times  before.  So  the  Senator  from  Massachusetts  be- 
lieved that  the  Constitution  had  been  respected?  Did  Webster  deny  that 
the  Constitution  extended  to  the  territories?  Was  this  an  admission  that 
if  the  Constitution  did  extend  to  the  territories,  the  South  would  be  pro- 
tected? 


472  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

Webster's  attention  shifted  from  Butler  with  a  jerk.  He  had  never  made 
any  such  admission,  he  growled.  The  Constitution  was  'the  supreme  law 
9f  the  land.' 

'Supreme  law  of  the  land?7  repeated  Calhoun.  The  territories  of  the 
United  States  are  a  part  of  the  land.'  Where  our  flag  went,  there  went  also 
the  Constitution.  How  could  we  have  any  authority  beyond  the  Constitu- 
tion? 'Is  not  Congress  the  creature  of  the  Constitution?'  The  territories 
were  the  property  of  the  thirty-three  states.  'The  South  asks  no  higher 
ground  to  stand  upon.' 

Cornered,  Webster  admitted  that  the  'fundamental  principles'  of  the 
Constitution  did  apply  to  the  territories.  Nevertheless,  he  added,  the  Su- 
preme Court  had  declared  that  the  Constitution  itself  did  not  extend  to 
the  territories. 

Calhoun  feigned  incredulity.  If  the  Constitution  did  not  extend  to  the 
territories,  how,  then,  could  Congress  exercise  any  power  over  them,  to 
prohibit  slavery  or  to  allow  it? 

'It  is  granted  in  the  Constitution  .  .  .,'  gasped  Webster,  'the  power  to 
make  .  .  .  laws  for  the  territories.' 

Calhoun  was  exultant.  'That  proves  the  proposition  false,  that  the  Con- 
stitution does  not  extend  to  the  Territories.'  Where  else  could  Congress 
have  obtained  the  power  to  legislate  for  them,  save  from  the  Constitution 
itself?  Would  'the  Senator  .  .  .  with  his  profound  talent'  deny  that  the 
Constitution  was  the  'supreme  law'  of  the  territories?  Would  the  Senator 
admit,  for  instance,  that  titles  of  nobility  (specifically  forbidden  by  the 
Constitution)  could  be  granted  in  California? 

Webster,  irritated,  declined  to  answer.  The  territories  were  not  a  part 
of  the  United  States.  'Never.' 

Calhoun's  guard  fell.  'I  had  supposed  that  all  the  territories  were  a  part 
of  the  United  States.  ...  At  all  events,'  he  added  hastily,  'they  belong 
to  the  United  States/ 

Webster  ended  the  duel  in  triumph.  'The  colonies  of  England  belong  to 
England,  but  they  are  not  a  part  of  England,'  he  said. 

Calhoun  persisted.  'Whatever  belongs  to  the  United  States  they  have 
authority  over/  The  extension  of  the  Constitution  to  the  territories,  he 
insisted,  would  be  a  shield  to  the  South.15 


Calhoun  had  more  ammunition  in  reserve  than  mere  appeals  for  help  in 
silencing  abolitionist  agitation.  Convinced  as  he  was  that  selfishness  was 
the  mainspring  of  human  nature,  his  determination  was  reached.  He  would 
not  rely  on  words  alone.  He  would  pit  the  North  against  itself,  use  the 
Northern  businessman  to  checkmate  the  Northern  abolitionist,  thus  com- 
pelling concessions  that  would  never  be  made  voluntarily. 


XXVm          NO   COMPROMISE  WITH  DESTINY  473 

Now  would  be  the  North's  turn  to  'calculate  the  value  of  the  Union.' 
Who  reaped  the  profits  of  the  Union?  The  business  leaders  of  the  North. 
Who  would  lose  if  the  Union  were  divided?  The  business  leaders  of  the 
North.  'Strike  out  the  products  of  slave  labor — the  great  staples  of  cot- 
ton, rice,  tobacco,  and  sugar — and  what  would  become  of  the  commerce, 
the  shipping,  the  navigation  ...  the  manufactures  of  the  North,  and  the 
revenue  of  the  Government?  What  would  become  of  the  North's  great 
commercial  and  manufacturing  towns,  and  her  vast  tonnage  and  shipping, 
crowding  every  harbor  and  afloat  on  every  sea?' 

The  North  could  deny  the  constitutional  rights  of  the  South.  What  if 
the  South  denied  the  constitutional  rights  of  the  North?  Supposing,  until 
justice  were  'rendered  the  South/  all  Southern  ports  and  railway  lines 
were  closed  to  the  North?  Supposing  the  Northwestern  states  could  be 
detached  from  the  Northeastern  by  leaving  open  only  those  river  and 
rail  lines  which  connected  West  and  South?  Then  the  South  could  enjoy 
free  trade,  set  her  own  price  for  cotton,  corn,  and  tobacco,  build  ships 
to  rival  New  England's  in  every  port  in  the  globe — and  all  at  the  North's 
expense!  16 

It  was  a  bold  scheme,  an  unworkable,  impractical  scheme.  Most  of  all, 
it  was  an  inflammatory  scheme,  and  there  were  those  who  agreed  with 
Benton  that  this  was  indeed  the  break-up  of  the  Union.  But  it  had  no 
such  meaning  to  Calhoun. 

He  knew  that  he  had  the  power  of  mind — yes,  and  of  emotion — to  sway 
those  men  who  sat  before  him.  But  what  were  they  but  representatives, 
after  all?  Of  what  use  to  convince  their  reasons  and  to  leave  unswayed 
their  constituents'  passions?  Defeat  would  be  only  postponed.  Laws  passed 
would  be  only  paper.  Not  Congress,  but  the  people  would  decide  the  final 
issue. 

What  of  the  tariff,  for  instance?  The  tariff  was  not  the  issue  of  the  day; 
it  was  not  even  foremost  in  Calhoun's  own  thoughts.  On  paper  its  battle 
had  been  won  long  ago,  and  yet  how  empty  that  victory  wasl  Relief  from 
tariff  pressure  had  only  intensified  abolitionist  agitation.  Men,  hungry 
for  money  and  power,  were  not  to  be  deterred  by  the  mere  lowering  of  a 
tariff.  There  were  other  ways — new  states  could  be  admitted,  states  safe 
for  Northern  interests,  and  the  guarantee  of  such  safety  would  be  the  ex- 
clusion of  slavery. 

They  were  all  tangled  together,  the  tariff,  the  territorial  question,  and 
outright  abolition;  and  all  were  means  to  one  end.  Deliberately,  Calhoun 
was  convinced,  the  North  had  violated  the  constitutional  compact  for  its 
own  economic  advantages — but  would  it  be  prepared  to  lose  the  South 
entirely?  Nothing,  he  believed,  would  restrain  it  but  the  fear  of  lost  profits 
— and  he  proposed  to  make  that  fear  real.  The  North's  'unbounded 
avarice,'  he  contended,  'would  .  .  .  control  them.' 

Actually  it  was  the  threat  which  served  his  purpose.  His  strategy  had 


474  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 

been  masterly.  His  appeals  had  been  to  the  deepest  instincts  of  every  Amer- 
ican group:  to  the  patriots  who  hated  slavery,  but  rallied  to  the  defense 
of  the  Union;  to  the  ambition  of  party  leaders  who  by  courting  the  abo- 
litionists would  lose  the  South;  to  the  cupidity  of  business  groups  whose 
profits  would  be  wrecked  by  a  divided  Union.  With  it  all,  he  had  backed 
up  his  threats  by  an  increasingly  united  'determination  of  the  South  to 
maintain  her  rights.' 16  The  agitation,  he  knew,  would  not  cease  of  itself. 

Yet,  masterly  as  his  reasoning  had  been,  it  was  flawed  in  its  basic  premise. 
Two  could  play  at  the  same  game.  A  united  North  could  counter  a  united 
South.  The  more  Calhoun  stiffened  the  South's  resistance,  the  more  im- 
pressive his  gains  in  legal  concessions  by  force  of  threat  and  in  defiance 
of  public  opinion,  the  more  that  opinion  united  against  him.  What  he 
did  not  see  was  that  even  the  Constitution  had  been  a  thing  of  compromises ; 
and  not  even  the  Constitution  could  transcend  the  will  of  the  people  to 
uphold  it. 


He  was  working  far  in  excess  of  his  strength.  By  1848,  he  was  showing 
unmistakable  signs  of  heart  disease,  but  he  refused  to  let  down;  as  Na- 
thaniel Willis  commented:  'Mr.  Calhoun  lives  in  his  mind;  with  no  thought 
of  the  body.5 17  Early  in  the  winter  he  contracted  bronchitis  and  was  in 
bed  for  weeks.  His  friends  helped  nurse  him,  and  found  him  at  once  the 
most  docile  and  the  most  exasperating  of  patients.  Actually  he  was  as 
little  trouble  as  a  sick  man  could  be,  for  he  feared  only  to  make  trouble, 
and  would  lie  quietly  all  day,  'asking  for  nothing.'  But  he  could  not  and 
would  not  shut  off  the  working  of  his  intellectual  machine;  and  the  doctor, 
Representative  Abraham  Venable  of  North  Carolina,  witnessed  with  grave 
concern  'the  influence  of  his  mighty  mind  over  his  weak  physical  struc- 
ture.' Like  'a  powerful  steam  engine  on  a  frail  bark,  every  revolution  of 
the  wheel  tried  its  capacity  for  endurance  to  the  utmost.'  To  those  who 
watched  at  the  Carolinian's  bedside  it  seemed  that  he  was  literally  'think- 
ing himself  into  the  grave.' 1S 

His  burdens  were  indeed  heavy.  But  boldly  he  faced  the  alternatives 
that  confronted  him.  To  him  the  preservation  of  the  Union  meant  the 
preservation  of  the  Constitution.  'I  go  to  preserve  the  Union,  but  when  I 
see  that  the  ...  rights  ...  of  the  South  are  to  be  sacrificed,  I  will  .  .  . 
when  I  deem  the  case  hopeless,  move  that  the  South  rise  and  separate  for 
their  own  safety.' 19 

Hopeless  he  would  not  yet  deem  the  case.  He  had  worked  out  a  plan  dur- 
ing those  long  weeks  in  bed;  and  at  his  call  sixty-nine  Southern  Senators 
and  Congressmen  met  in  the  Senate  Chamber  on  the  twenty-third  of  De- 
cember, 1848.  There  a  committee  of  fifteen  was  appointed,  and  from  these 


NO   COMPROMISE   WITH   DESTINY  475 

a  sub-committee  with  Calhoun  at  its  head.  To  them  Calhoun  presented  the 
first  draft  of  his  'Address  of  the  Southern  Delegates  in  Congress  to  their 
Constituents.'  Its  object,  he  contended,  was  'not  to  cause  excitement,  but 
to  put  you  in  full  possession  of  all  the  facts  necessary  to  a  full  .  ..  .  con- 
ception of  a  deep-seated  disease,  which  threatens  great  danger  to  you.  .  .  .' 

Briefly,  in  terse,  bitter,  but  restrained  language,  he  repeated  the  old 
story  of  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  the  South.  Once  more  he  warned  that  if 
the  North  had  the  power  to  'monopolize  .  .  .  the  Territories/  she  would 
soon  have  the  majority  power  to  'emancipate  our  slaves  under  color  of  an 
amendment  to  the  Constitution.'  Then  would  the  slaves  be  enfranchised 
to  vote,  and  with  these  political  allies,  the  dominance  and  subjection  of 
the  South  would  be  completed. 

Never  had  Calhoun's  vision  so  pierced  the  mists  of  the  future.  In  a  flash 
of  insight  he  had  looked  beyond  the  field  of  Appomattox,  had  seen  'con- 
sequences unparalleled  in  history,'  the  overthrow  of  the  Southern  whites, 
the  slaves  raised  to  power  on  the  shoulders  of  Northern  politicians.  He  saw 
the  South  in  ruins,  prostrate,  poverty-stricken;  for  her  subjugation,  he 
knew,  could  come  only  at  the  climax  of  a  'bitter'  conflict  between  the 
people  of  the  two  sections.  He  knew  that  the  South  would  resist  'without 
looking  to  consequences.' 20 

History  was  to  divide  sharply  as  to  the  purpose  of  this  tragic  appeal. 
As  usual  with  Calhoun's  warnings,  it  was  'understood  and  appreciated 
by  the  masses,'  but  not  by  the  politicians.21  It  was  published  through- 
out the  South,  but  leaders  stood  off  aghast;  their  aim  being  to  avoid  issues 
rather  than  to  create  them.  Horace  Mann  spoke  for  the  North:  'Many  of 
the  most  intelligent  men,'  he  wrote,  'believe  Mr.  Calhoun  is  resolved  oil 
a  dissolution  of  the  Union.' 22 

No  act  of  Calhoun's  career  was  to  be  more  misunderstood,  either  by 
his  own  contemporaries,  or  by  posterity,  than  his  stand  in  this  hour  of 
decision.  And  only  by  realizing  what  was  in  his  mind  in  the  winter  of 
1848-49,  is  it  possible  to  throw  any  light  upon  this  'obscure  chapter  in 
politics.'  For  Calhoun,  'in  his  very  last  stage  .  .  .  saw  two  things,  neither 
of  which  are  yet  upon  the  broad  page  of  history — that  Southern  national- 
ism was  a  real  force,  and  that  the  only  way  to  keep  it  from  destroying  the 
Union,  was  to  organize  it  within  the  Union.' 23  Far  from  being  the  'mov- 
ing cause  of  excitement,'  as  many  believed  him  to  be,  intimates  like 
Beverly  Tucker  and  Hammond  well  knew  that  for  over  twenty  years  his 
had  been  the  power  that  had  restrained  the  hotheads.24  He  had  checked 
the  'Bluffton  movement'  in  1844.  He  had  restrained  the  'premature'  de- 
mand for  a  Southern  Convention  that  same  year,  hoping  that  the  election 
of  a  Democratic  President  would  provide  a  solution  to  Southern  problems. 
Always  his  aim  had  been  'to  turn  the  flank  of  the  secessionists  ...  to 
circumvent  rather  than  to  express'  their  aims.25 

Concessions,  he  knew,  must  be  made.  But  all  his  acts  during  these  final 


476  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

months — his  calls  for  unity  through  the  Southern  Address  and  a  South- 
ern Convention  at  Nashville;  his  dream  of  a  'dominion  status'  for  the 
South,  hinted  at  in  his  last  speech,  and  indicated  in  the  book  he  left  be- 
hind him;  his  choice  of  a  conservative  and  patriot  as  his  successor,  rather 
than  a  man  who  would  make  good  his  threats;  the  'deepening  agony'  of 
his  last  days,  when  he  seized  frantically  on  any  straw  of  hope — all  give 
somber  testimony  to  the  one  hope  that  had  gripped  him  through  a  life- 
time. Through  'love  of  the  Union,  he  had  tried  every  expedient,  possible 
or  impossible,  rather  than  advise  the  South  to  resort  to  the  plain  remedy 
of  secession.'  To  the  last  he  would  hope  for  the  'preservation  of  the  Union 
upon  the  terms  he  had  suggested.'  * 

Those  who  now  taunted  him  as  disunionist  and  party  politician  are 
scarcely  above  suspicion  themselves.  For  not  ten  months  later,  these  same 
men  would  be  openly  howling  the  inevitability  of  disunion.  Southerners 
must  'stand  by  their  arms';  must  'fight  or  submit';  these  were  the  watch- 
words of  the  winter  of  1850.  That  same  Robert  Toombs,  the  Georgian 
who  condemned  Calhoun  as  a  traitor,  would  stand  up  in  Congress  not 
one  year  later  openly  declaring:  'I  am  a  disunionist.'  Even  Alexander 
Stephens  would  add  that  he  saw  'no  hope  to  the  South  from  the  Union/  ** 

Circumstantial  evidence,  at  least,  would  indicate  that  in  both  parties 
were  die-hard  radicals  whose  actual  fear  of  Calhoun's  plan  was  that  it 
might  work.  The  North  might  be  brought  to  a  halt;  Southern  secession 
might  be  averted.  And  knowingly  or  unknowingly,  the  Whig  moderates 
would  play  right  into  the  extremists'  hands.  By  thwarting  Calhoun's 
plans  for  Southern  unity,  they  robbed  the  extremists  of  any  justifiable 
hope  that  Southern  rights  might  be  preserved  without  secession. 

Calhoun's  Southern  sub-committee  met  January  13,  1849.  From  the  first, 
the  Whig  members  balked;  as  they  admitted  later,  they  had  taken  part 
only  that  they  might  undermine  the  movement.  It  took  all  Calhoun's 
efforts,  after  hours  of  heated  debate,  to  secure  ratification  of  the  Address 
by  a  single  vote.  Two  days  later,  eighty  Southerners  gathered  in  the  Senate 
Chamber  behind  closed  doors,  and  all  Washington  seethed  with  excitement. 

Calhoun's  aims  were  not  understood.  A  'regular  flareup'  broke  out,  with 
Calhoun  challenging  the  bull-necked,  bushy-haired  Whig  leader  Toombs, 
who  flashed  back  that  the  union  of  the  South  meant  only  the  break-up 
of  the  national  Union.  Another  Whig  taunted  Calhoun  with  the  desire  to 
be  President — a  charge  so  ridiculous  now  that  it  could  not  even  make  him 
angry.  'The  Presidency,'  he  said  softly,  'is  nothing.'  But  the  evening 
closed  in  an  uproar,  with  Whigs  and  even  Democrats  refusing  to  sign 
Calhoun's  desperate  appeal.28 

Up  to  the  White  House  the  next  day  went  Calhoun.  He  was  over- 
wrought, speaking  in  'excited  tones'  of  the  Texas  Representatives,  de- 
claring that  they  had  'betrayed  the  South.'  But  he  received  no  sympathy 


XXVm  NO   COMPROMISE  WITH  DESTINY  477 

from  Mr.  Polk,  who  let  him  understand  'distinctly'  that  he  would  give 
'no  countenance  to  any  movement  which  tended  to  violence  or  disunion/ 
Congress  was  the  place  to  settle  disputes,  not  agitated  mass  meetings, 
with  addresses  to  'inflame  the  country.'  To  Polk  it  seemed  wholly  un- 
justifiable that  with  any  reasonable  prospect  of  peace  by  Congressional 
action,  the  Southerners  should  withhold  their  co-operation.  Calhoun,  he 
felt,  was  bent  on  forcing  the  issue  and  did  not  even  'desire  that  Congress 
should  settle  the  question.' M 

Polk  was  right;  but  what  he  could  not  see,  and  what  the  Whig  group 
could  not  see,  was  that  'no  Congressional  settlement  was  possible/  Any 
kind  of  makeshift  legislation  would  only  be  undone  at  the  next  session  by 
the  wrath  and  dictates  of  an  aroused  public  opinion.  Only  the  reversal 
of  Northern  public  opinion  could  save  the  South  now,  and  only  an  aroused 
and  united  South  could  frighten  the  North  into  such  a  reversal.  Thus 
reasoned  Calhoun.  The  Northern  people  must  themselves  will  a  settlement 
before  any  settlement  could  endure. 


He  alone  could  not  force  the  reckoning.  The  strain  of  those  tense  weeks 
had  exhausted  his  strength.  On  the  morning  of  January  19,  1849,  he  arose, 
whipped  up  his  waning  energies  with  a  cold  bath,  then  walked  to  the 
Capitol  The  morning  was  windy  and  raw.  The  hot,  stagnant  air  of  the 
Senate  Chamber  struck  him  like  a  blast  furnace  and  his  head  spun.  Dimly 
he  saw  Stephen  A.  Douglas  approaching,  with  someone  on  his  arm.  Cal- 
houn stood  up,  acknowledged  the  introduction,  and  collapsed  at  the  Little 
Giant's  feet. 

He  recovered  in  a  moment.  Fearful  only  of  the  concern  his  family  would 
feel  for  him,  he  hurriedly  wrote  them,  begging  them  not  to  believe  the 
'exaggerated'  reports  in  the  papers.  A  doctor  had  been  summoned,  had 
mumbled  something  about  a  'want  of  tone  in  his  system/  advised  him  to 
'live  more  generously/  and  to  remain  quiet.  He  now  felt  'fully  as  well  as 
usual.'30 

Doggedly  he  determined  to  resume  his  seat  the  next  day.  Again  he 
walked  to  the  Capitol,  but,  faint  and  weak,  he  could  not  stay  out  the 
morning.  For  the  next  few  days  he  was  confined  to  his  room. 

The  collapse  of  their  leader  struck  terror  into  the  hearts  of  the  South- 
erners. Without  his  guiding  hand  their  whole  program  was  in  danger.  They 
reminded  the  public  sternly  that  his  illness  was  caused  by  his  own  friends, 
visiting  him  'injudiciously/  keeping  him  up  night  after  night  far  past 
twelve  o'clock.  In  the  columns  of  the  Washington  newspapers  his  agitated 
followers  pled  that  the  great  Carolinian  be  given  a  chance  to  rest  and  re- 
cover; above  all,  that  he  be  left  alone. 


478  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

For  all  his  determination,  Calhoun  was  too  ill  to  attend  the  meeting  on 
January  22,  when  his  banner  was  trodden  underfoot  by  the  Southern 
Whigs.  Courting  friendship  and  unity  with  their  fellow  Whigs  in  the 
North,  they  were  able  to  triumph:  'We  have  completely  foiled  Calhoun 
in  his  miserable  attempt  to  form  a  Southern  party.'  The  defeat  did  not 
come  without  a  fight;  there  was  'not  only  warm  but  .  .  .  red-hot  de- 
bating/ But  only  two  Whigs  offered  their  signatures,  and  several  promi- 
nent Democrats  disclaimed  any  obligation  to  vote  for  the  'whittled-down 
.  .  .  weak  milk  and  water  address/  S1  which  was  all  the  Whigs  had  left 
of  Calhoun's  appeal.  Not  yet  would  the  South  unite. 

But  Calhoun  refused  to  surrender.  Any  device  that  would  postpone  the 
day  of  retribution,  that  would  restrain  the  onward  march  of  the  North 
even  momentarily,. leaving  hope  for  future  action,  he  could  support  with 
his  whole  heart.  'We  have  done  all  we  could  to  unite  the  South  on  some 
common  ground/  he  wrote.  Against  the  'whole  weight'  of  the  Southern 
Whigs,  the  entire  Administration  group,  and  the  'hacks'  of  the  Demo- 
cratic Party,  'it  was  doing  much  to  get  49  signers.' S2 

On  January  24,  Calhoun  was  back  in  the  Senate,  looking  'ill  and 
anxious.'  He  could  neither  rest  nor  sleep;  he  was  'worn  out  with  anxiety.' 
A  few  days  later  he  fainted  again,  and  was  carried  into  the  Vice-President's 
office,  where  Rhett  found  him  sitting  on  the  sofa,  his  coat  and  waistcoat 
off.  It  was  a  raw  cold  day. 

As  Rhett  entered,  Calhoun  held  out  his  hand  and  said:  'Ah,  Mr.  Rhett, 
my  career  is  nearly  done.  .  .  .  The  great  battle  must  be  fought  by  you 
younger  men.' 

'I  hope  not,  sir/  Rhett  answered  quickly,  'for  never  was  your  life  more 
precious,  or  your  counsels  more  needed  for  the  guidance  and  salvation  of 
the  South.' 

Tears  filled  Calhoun's  eyes  and  ran  unheeded  down  his  haggard  cheeks. 
'There  indeed,  is  my  only  regret  at  going/  he  said.  'The  South — the  poor 
South!  God  knows  what  will  become  of  her!' 

Rhett  begged  Calhoun  to  put  on  his  clothes.  He  shook  his  head.  'I  can't/ 
he  said.  'I'm  burning  up.  Wait  until  I'm  cool.' M 

He  was  burning  himself  out  in  the  fire  of  his  own  intensity.  His  friends 
begged  him  to  stay  out  of  the  Senate  Chamber,  and  after  a  few  days  his 
health  seemed  to  improve,  but  no  one  believed  that  he  would  ever  be  able 
to  return  to  Washington  for  another  session. 


8 

Then  came  word  from  Anna  Maria.  She  was  in  New  York,  only  able  to 
remain  in  the  country  for  a  few  weeks.  She  longed  to  see  her  father.  And 
Calhoun  braved  the  strenuous  journey  to  New  York  City,  where  he  had 


XXVm  NO   COMPROMISE  WITH  DESTINY  479 

not  been  for  years.  His  visit  was  all  but  secret;  he  had  no  energy  for  en- 
tertaining or  for  being  entertained.  But  in  answer  to  Anna  Maria's  plea 
for  a  picture  of  him  to  put  in  her  locket,  he  accompanied  her  one  cloudy- 
March  afternoon  to  the  Fulton  Street  Gallery  of  Matthew  Brady,  who  had 
already  won  national  fame  for  his  work  in  the  new  'art'  of  photography. 

Brady  had  photographed  them  all — the  dying  Jackson;  the  buoyant 
and  freckled  Clay;  Webster,  who  had  walked  in  upon  him  announcing 
pompously:  'I  am  here,  Mr.  Brady;  I  am  here.  Do  with  me  as  you  will.' 
But  none  of  his  subjects  had  interested  him  more  than  Calhoun.  He  studied 
him  as  Anna  Maria  'delicately'  arranged  his  hair  and  cloak  for  the  sitting; 
the  square  forehead,  the  deep,  'cavernous'  eyes — 'startling,'  Brady  found 
them;  they  'almost  hypnotized  me/  He  was  struck  by  the  Southerner's 
appearance  of  'great  age/  Calhoun  was  sixty-seven,  but  strain  and  illness 
had  aged  him  years  beyond  that. 

Calhoun  talked  while  the  equipment  was  being  brought  up,  showing  a 
knowledge  of  the  scientific  process  of  photography  which  amazed  not  only 
the  onlookers  but  Brady  himself.  At  last  the  intricate  system  of  locks  and 
clamps,  in  the  cage  where  the  poser  had  to  place  his  head,  was  ready. 
Three  shots  were  taken.  The  first  was  almost  instantaneous;  but  in  the 
second,  the  clouds  had  thickened  above  the  skylight  overhead,  and  Cal- 
houn, obliged  to  stand  motionless  for  several  minutes,  'wearily  remarked 
upon  it.'  The  picture  was  a  failure,  and  with  some  hesitation  Brady  asked 
the  Senator  if  he  would  mind  posing  again.  Calhoun  glanced  at  Anna 
Maria,  then  very  'readily  consented.' 34 

The  results  were  startling.  Only  a  trace  of  the  Carolinian's  youthful 
good  looks  now  lingered.  He  was  so  thin  that  his  high  cheekbones  almost 
pierced  the  skin,  and  his  long  hands  were  transparent.  Here  was  the  Cal- 
houn the  world  has  come  to  know:  proud,  defiant,  unbroken,  his  cloak 
swept  dramatically  around  him,  the  shaggy  hair,  which  had  resisted  all 
Anna  Maria's  attempts  to  comb,  hanging  loose  about  his  bent  shoulders. 
Out  of  the  portrait  he  gazes,  his  dark  eyes  burning  across  a  century,  on 
his  face  the  look  of  a  prophet,  a  tortured  prophet  who  sees  nothing  in  the 
future  but  the  defeat  of  all  that  he  fights  for  and  holds  dear. 


Never  had  spring  been  more  beautiful  in  South  Carolina.  And  never,  even 
in  youth,  had  Calhoun's  senses  responded  more  eagerly.  The  young  bloom 
of  the  jessamine  and  dogwood,  the  forest,  'just  clo[th]ing  itself  with 
green/  the  contrast  between  'being  pent  up  in  a  boarding  house  in  Wash- 
ington and  breathing  the  pure  fresh  air  of  the  country  .  .  .  made  fragrant 
by  the  blossoms  of  Spring,' S5  was  almost  more  than  he  could  bear. 


480  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

The  cycle  of  the  seasons  circled  around  him.  With  his  farmer's  eye  he 
gauged  the  progress  of  his  crops.  The  weather  generally  had  been  too 
cold  and  wet  for  cotton,  but  Ms"  looked  well;  in  fact,  with  his  hillside 
drains  and  curving  rows,  was  'really  handsome.'  Even  the  'old  field'  past  the 
barn  was  green  as  a  meadow.  Beyond,  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  stretched 
a  hundred  and  twenty-five  acres  of  oats,  one  $ingle  'unbroken  mass  of 
green.'  The  'big  bottom'  opposite  was  covered  with  'a  superb  crop  of  corn7 ; 
and  farther  still  rose  Fort  Hill,  the  harvested  wheat,  'standing  in  shocks. 
.  .  .  Everything/  he  wrote  Anna  Maria,  'looks  beautiful.' ss 

A  visiting  reporter  was  left  breathless  by  the  rigors  of  Calhoun's 
schedule:  rising  at  four  or  five  o'clock,  a  long  ride  over  the  plantation, 
letter-writing  until  breakfast,  and  then  work  in  the  office  until  one  or  two 
in  the  afternoon.  He  was  driving  himself  as  hard  as  in  his  youth,  and  the 
expenditure  of  physical  energy  alone  would  have  put  a  young  and  robust 
man  to  shame.  He  took  all  necessary  care  of  himself,  he  assured  Anna 
Maria,  'except  being  rather  more  overtasked  than  I  could  wish.'  To 
Clemson,  he  confessed:  'I  walk  three  or  four  miles  every  day;  and  write 
6  or  7  hours  on  an  average.' 8T  He  was  drawing  recklessly  on  his  last  re- 
serves in  order  to  finish  the  tasks  before  him.  Too  keyed  up  for  sleep, 
night  after  night,  as  in  the  nullification  days,  he  walked  the  hallways  of 
Fort  Hill,  relentless  thoughts  hammering  at  his  overactive  brain. 

He  paid  for  this  feverish  energy  with  days  of  complete  reaction  when 
he  was  too  weak  to  leave  his -room  or  for  Floride  to  permit  anyone  to  see 
him  but  his  closest  friends.  Grimly  he  would  not  even  admit  that  he  was 
ill.  'There  is  no  foundation  in  the  report  to  which  you  alude,'  he  coldly 
wrote  a  friend,  his  shaky  handwriting  so  hair-fine  and  delicate  that  the 
strokes  scarcely  marked  the  paper.  'My  health  is  as  good  as  usual.'  M 


10 

The  time  had  come  for  the  last  mighty  drive  to  unite  the  South.  Hour 
after  hour  the  leader  sat  in  his  office,  mapping  strategy.  Never  again 
would  his  enemies  dare  charge  that  all  his  efforts  were  mere  devices  to 
hoist  himself  into  the  Presidency.  Not  even  those  at  the  ends  of  his  strings 
dreamed  that  his  was  the  master  hand  that  was  pulling  them.  Even  the 
ostensible  leader  of  the  cause,  Henry  J.  Foote  of  Mississippi,  believed  that 
the  whole  idea  of  a  Southern  Convention  had  originated  in  his  own  brain. 
It  was  the  sovereign  state  of  Mississippi  that  had  answered  to  the  South's 
cry  for  joint  action,  not  'South  Carolina,  or  her  statesmen,'  so  Foote  hap- 
pily believed.  Not  until  two  years  later  did  he  discover  that  far  from  Cal- 
houn  having  written  only  to  him  on  the  subject,  the  old  South  Carolinian's 
correspondence  had  been  'pretty  extensive';  and  indeed  that  the  whole 


CALHOUN  IN  His  LAST  YEARS 
From  a  daguerreotype  by  Matthew  Brady,  in  the  National  Archives 


XXVHI  NO   COMPROMISE  WITH  DESTINY  481 

framework  of  the  Convention  had  been  'more  or  less'  worked  out  Tby  his 
great  intellect.'  As  Sam  Houston  dryly  observed,  if  'South  Carolina  had 
never  existed,  Mississippi  would  never  have  thought  of  it.'  ^ 

It  was  in  answer  to  newly  aroused  Southern  sentiment  that  Calhoun 
had  set  the  wheels  of  a  convention  in  motion.  As  early  as  1837  he  had 
thought  a  Southern  Convention  indispensable  as  a  means  of  impressing 
the  North;  *°  by  1848  he  was  advocating  it  again.  The  collapse  of  the 
Southern  Address  movement  had  only  strengthened  his  conviction.  The 
time  had  come.  The  leaders  had  failed  to  speak.  No  matter.  The  North 
would  be  far  more  stirred  by  a  movement  .traight  from  the  angered  masses 
of  the  South  than  by  any  political  address. 

Only  an  'unbroken  front  could  repel  Northern  aggressions.'  The  Conven- 
tion would  'discharge  a  great  duty  we  owe  our  partners  in  the  Union  .  .  . 
to  warn  them  .  .  .  that  if  they  do  not  ...  cease  to  disregard  our  rights 
...  the  duty  we  owe  to  ourselves  and  to  our  posterity  would  compel  us 
to  dissolve  the  partnership.' 41 

Calhoun  had  gauged  public  sentiment  far  more  closely  than  his  Sena- 
torial opponents  had  done.  Legislature  after  Legislature — Virginia,  Florida, 
Missouri,  North  Carolina — passed  resolutions  in  defiance  of  the  Wilmot 
Proviso.  Virginia  laid  the  groundwork  for  a  special  session  should  the 
Proviso  be  passed.  Democrats  swept  the  elections  in  Georgia  and  Ala- 
bama. In  accordance  with  a  plan,  privately  suggested  by  Calhoun,  dele- 
gates from  the  districts  and  parishes  of  South  Carolina  met  in  Columbia 
on  May  14,  1849,  and  appointed  a  central  committee  of  'Vigilance  and 
Safety'  to  co-operate  with  similar  committees  in  other  Southern  states 
should  the  need  arise. 

Though  ostensibly  Mississippi  took  the  lead,  it  was  almost  in  Calhoun's 
words  that  in  the  fall  of  1849  the  call  for  the  Convention  was  issued.  The 
place  chosen  was  Nashville,  Tennessee;  the  date,  June,  1850.  Calhoun 
was  jubilant.  The  Convention  would  be  'the  most  important  movement 
that  has  yet  been  made  ...  it  may  still  be  hoped,'  he  wrote  Mathews, 
'that  the  Union  will  be  saved.'42  The  South  was  stirring  from  its  long 
sleep;  it  would  never  relax  again. 

But  not  even  this  great  task  absorbed  Calhoun's  energies.  'All  the  time 
left  me,'  he  wrote  Anna  Maria,  was  devoted  to  the  completion  of  his 
book  on  the  'Science  of  Government,'  which  he  had  started  in  1842,  but 
had  been  compelled  to  lay  aside.  He 'ought  not  to  delay  .  .  .  any  longer.' 48 

Like  all  authors,  Calhoun  longed  for  some  appreciation  of  his  efforts, 
perhaps  for  the  audience  that  he  sensed  he  would  not  live  to  see.  Chafing 
against  the  intellectual  solitude  which  had  enclosed  him  for  years,  his 
thoughts  turned  to  one  of  whom  he  had  truly  said:  'It  is  a  satisfaction  to 
come  into  contact  with  a  man  of  intellect  who  understands  you.'  Daniel 
Webster  would  see  the  point  of  his  arguments;  he  would  be  'sure  to  ad- 
mit their  force.  .  .  Better  send  him  a  manuscript  copy,'  he  told  his 


482  JOHN   C,   CALHOUN 

secretary,  Joseph  Scoville.  Webster  would  not  dispute  his  findings.  Webster 
has  sense.  He  has  never  attempted  to  answer  any  argument  of  mine.'  ** 

Family  affairs  pressed  in  for  his  attention.  Clemson,  as  usual,  was  re- 
lieving his  own  burdens  by  laying  them  upon  Calhoun;  and  the  older 
man,  as  usual,  accepted  them  without  complaint.  He  made  his  customary 
summer  survey  of  Clemson's  deserted  plantation,  listened  to  the  younger 
man's  continual  whine  that  he  longed  to  be  'done  with  Southern  property/ 
and  resisted  pressure  for  a  quick  sale  or  rental  of  the  hapless  Negroes.45 
This  was  routine,  but  by  midsummer  Calhoun's  peace  was  shattered  once 
more,  as  in  the  past,  by  a  bitter  money  quarrel  between  his  son  Andrew 
and  Clemson.  What  made  matters  worse,  the  year  before  Floride  had 
turned  on  her  own  son. 

'I  regret  it,'  Calhoun  had  written,  'I  regret  it  profoundly.5  **  He  loved 
Andrew;  whatever  he  had  done,  he  was  his  own  flesh  and  blood.  And  he 
also  loved  Clemson  for  Anna  Maria's  sake.  Silently  he  bowed  his  head 
to  his  son-in-law's  charge  that  he  was  trying  to  'protect'  his  son,  expressed 
gratitude  for  gifts  of  'excellent'  imported  wine  and  brandy,  and  no  rebuke 
for  Clemson's  slurs  against  his  'way  of  doing  business.'  Without  reproof, 
even  to  Andrew,  Calhoun  shouldered  the  burden,  mortgaged  Fort  Hill 
more  heavily,  and  pledged  his  crop  against  his  son-in-law's  losses.  'You 
cannot  be  more  anxious  to  have  what  is  due  you,'  he  wrote,  'than  we 
are  to  pay  it.' 4T 


11 

Slowly  the  seasons  turned.  Autumn  burned  across  the  hills;  leaves  fell 
one  by  one  from  the  oak  trees  like  drops  of  sunlight.  It  had  been  a  damp 
summer;  'dust  never  rose  on  the  place  from  .  .  .  April  to  August,'48 
Calhoun  had  written.  Yet  all  the  South  had  flowered  into  life.  Not  in  ten 
years  had  there  been  a  richer  harvest. 

Once  more  Calhoun  stood  by  to  superintend  the  gathering  of  his  crop. 
His  loving  care  of  the  land,  'manuring  and  good  cultivation,'  as  he  ex- 
plained to  Clemson,  had  reaped  a  rich  reward.  He  could  take  pride  in  a 
corn  field  tilled  and  plowed  for  fifty  years  and  now  yielding  up  its  three 
thousand  bushels.  The  wet  lowlands  he  had  planted  in  rice,  and  gath- 
ered one  hundred  and  thirty  bushels.  Sixty  bales  of  cotton  had  been 
picked  from  one  hundred  and  thirteen  acres. 

Despite  his  financial  burdens,  he  could  leave  home  with  an  easy  heart. 
He  had  a  'first-rate'  overseer,  'who  takes  as  much  interest  as  I  do  in 
everything  about  the  place.' 49  His  work  was  over.  So  now  he  stood  in  the 
light-glow  of  late  October,  for  the  last  time  watching  the  cotton  wagons 
roll  out  of  sight  around  the  curve. 

There  was  the  smell  of  dead  leaves  and  of  brush  fires  and  of  pine  needles 


XXVm  NO   COMPROMISE   WITH   DESTINY  483 

wanned  in  the  sun.  The  flaming  sunset  dimmed.  Wild  ducks  massed  in 
formation,  beating  their  way  across  a  colorless  sky. 
The  long  summer  was  over. 

12 

He  was  Very  comfortably  quartered/  Calhoun  wrote  his  family  from 
Washington  in  November,  1849,  'at  Hill's  boarding  house,'  where  he  had 
stayed  several  times  before.  His  large  and  airy  room  was  on  the  ground 
floor,  with  Armistead  Burt  within  calling  distance  next  door.  HilTs  itself 
was  a  grim  and  comfortless-looking  structure,  three  stories  high  with  a 
front  chimney  on  either  side  and  a  long  ell  at  the  back.  But  it  awakened 
memories  in  Calhoun.  Already  its  brick  walls  were  steeped  in  history, 
for  it  was  here  that  Congress  had  crowded  in  during  those  grim  days  of 
1814,  after  the  burning  of  Washington.  Here,  too,  within  a  few  years 
Southern  men  would  lie  in  chains,  for  the  'Old  Capitol5  was  to  become 
'Old  Capitol  Prison'  of  Civil  War  days.  And  there  at  last  would  rise  a 
temple  to  freedom,  for  it  was  upon  this  site  that  the  white  marble  building 
of  the  Supreme  Court  was  one  day  to  stand. 

Its  location,  'the  most  protected  and  best  in  Washington,'  was  what 
pleased  Calhoun.  Only  a  block  distant  rose  the  steps  of  the  Capitol.  This 
meant  much  to  a  man  who  knew  so  well  'the  bleakness  of  the  walk'  up 
the  hill  in  windy  weather,  the  danger  of  getting  overheated  in  the  heavy 
clothing  of  the  Washington  winter,  and  of  'cooling  off  too  suddenly/  upon 
entering  the  Senate  Chamber.60 

Much  of  the  time  he  was  unable  to  leave  his  room.  He  toiled  feverishly 
in  an  effort  to  see  his  book — his  life-work — finished  at  last.  To  Anna 
Maria  he  expressed  regret  for  not  writing  her  'as  frequently  as  formerly. 
...  Be  assured  that  it  has  not  been  caused  by  any  abatement  of  affection 
towards  you.  It  is  ...  simply  .  .  .  that  I  have  been  overburthened  with 
writing  .  .  .  labor,  which  you  know,  I  have  ever  been  especially  averse 
to.'  His  personal  correspondence,  she  knew,  included  nine  people  in  his 
own  family.  In  addition,  he  had  written  during  the  summer  'between  400 
and  SOO  pages  of  foolscap/  and  now  was  devoting  most  of  his  'spare  time' 
to  preparing  the  book  for  the  press.  The  'discourse,  or  disquisition' — he 
had  not  yet  named  it — was  already  being  copied.  The  discourse  on  the 
Constitution  was  'much  more  voluminous/  but  the  'rough  draft'  was 
finished.  If  only  he  could  get  it  done  before  Congress  adjourned  ,  .  .51 

Occasionally  he  fell  into  reminiscence.  Burt,  who  admired  him  greatly, 
both  as  man  and  leader,  was  a  sympathetic  listener.  And  once,  when  the 
two  were  alone,  in  a  rare  moment  of  self-revelation,  Calhoun  unburdened 
himself  of  a  memory  that  had  haunted  him  for  forty-odd  years.  He  spoke 
of  his  youth,  of  his  law-circuit  days,  and  of  a  girl  in  an  old  tavern  at  a 
cross-roads.52 


484  JOHN.  C.   CALHOUN 


13 

The  Senate  Chamber,  too,  was  showing  signs  of  the  years.  There  were  the 
same  two  stoves,  rusty  and  steaming  with  their  load  of  hickory  wood, 
the  same  foul  air,  too  stagnant  even  to  heat,  the  streams  of  tobacco 
juice  trickling  across  the  floor.  Men  sat  shivering,  with  their  hats  on  and 
blankets  pinned  at  their  throats.  Others  reeled  in,  warm  and  half-drunk, 
from  the  notorious  'Hole-in-the-Wall,'  which  was  in  the  Capitol,  itself. 

On  the  few  days  he  was  able  to  drag  himself  to  the  Senate  at  all,  Cal- 
houn's  eyes  searched  the  faces  around  him.  There  was  a  fever,  an  exhilara- 
tion in  the  air,  that  he  had  known  before.  But  never,  even  in  1812,  had 
it  been  like  this.  New  faces  and  new  names  now:  Mississippi's  violent 
young  Foote,  the  Tree  Soil'  Senators,  Chase  of  Ohio  and  the  caustic 
Seward  of  New  York,  Douglas  of  Illinois  and  Bell  of  Tennessee — and  yet 
the  tense  look  on  their  young  faces  was  one  Calhoun  would  have  recog- 
nized instantly.  These,  too,  like  the  War  Hawks  of  1812,  were  men  who 
had  grown  up  on  the  edge  of  danger.  War  talk  had  been  free  then;  it 
was  pent-up  now,  but  all  the  more  terrible  for  that.  Once  that  same  ex- 
citement had  quivered  through  his  own  nerves;  now  he  knew  only  despair. 
For  now  the  enemy  was  not  an  instrument  of  unity  but  of  destruction; 
not  from  without  but  from  within  the  Union's  own  borders. 

Around  him,  too,  were  the  men  with  whom  he  had  shared  his  life,  his 
despairs  and  his  exaltations,  men  whom  he  had  alternately  fought  and 
loved.  There  sat  Benton,  dropping  his  eyes  before  Calhoun's  gaze,  Houston, 
in  his  Indian  blanket  and  moccasins,  he  who  had  reigned  as  King  in 
Texas,  now  whittling  time  away  with  slow  sharp  strokes  of  his  knife. 
Nothing  could  rouse  him  from  his  lethargy  but  the  appearance  of  a 
woman,  preferably  Varina  Davis,  to  whom  he  would  rise,  bow,  and  greet 
with  his  fervid  'Lady,  I  salute  you.'  Later  he  would  draw  from  his  pouch 
one  of  the  little  wooden  hearts  he  carved,  and  hand  it  over  with  a  flourish: 
'Lady,  let  me  give  you  my  heart.' 53 

.  Webster  sat  nearby,  chin  sunk  in  his  collar,  his  thin  hair  hanging  limp 
over  his  great  head,  the  deep  eyes  seldom  flashing  now,  but  burning  with  a 
'steady,  awful  glow.'  And  there,  in  all  his  old  pride  of  command,  aquiver 
with  eagerness,  sat  that  'same  old  coon,'  Henry  Clay.54 

For  Henry  Clay  was  back,  and  not  even  the  drama  of  his  departure 
could  match  the  drama  of  his  return.  He  was  seventy-three,  only  recently 
recovered  from  injuries  suffered  in  a  stagecoach  accident,  but  his  slender 
body  was  still  erect,  and  'about  the  corners  of  his  capacious  mouth  .  .  . 
the  bewitching  smile'  of  his  youth  still  played.55  He  was  white-haired  now; 
thirty-eight  years  had  passed  since  the  blithe,  buoyant  'cock  of  Kentucky' 
had  sounded  the  trumpet  call  for  the  Second  American  Revolution,  but  he 


XXVin  NO   COMPROMISE  WITH  DESTINY  485 

was  Henry  Clay  still,  born  to  lead  and  to  command.  He  had  come  back 
to  save  his  country,  and  aflame  with  this  purpose,  old  age  had  dropped 
from  him  like  a  cloak. 

In  the  rough-and-tumble  of  Senate  debate,  men  marveled  to  see  how 
little  Clay  had  lost  of  his  old  power.  He  was  still  at  his  best  when  flashing 
taunts,  such  as  his  gibe  at  Calhoun,  who  in  a  misguided  moment  had  pro- 
claimed that  'a  mysterious  Providence  had  brought  the  blacks  and  whites 
together  for  their  mutual  betterment.'  Clay  wasted  no  words  on  his  re- 
sponse. 'To  call  a  generation  of  slave-trading  pirates  a  mysterious  Prov- 
idence,' he  declared,  'was  an  insult  to  the  Supreme  Being.7  w 

Old  as  he  was,  Clay's  eye  had  not  ceased  to  rove.  It  paused  upon 
Amelia  Burt,  the  pretty  twenty-year-old  niece  of  Calhoun,  who  accom- 
panied her  uncle  to  Congress  mornings  and  sat  beside  him  on  a  hassock. 
One  evening  Clay  dropped  in  at  Mrs.  Hill's.  The  corridor  was  dark,  but  he 
found  Amelia  and  reacted  instantly,  according  to  instinct  and  habit. 
Breaking  free,  she  burst  into  the  sitting  room.  'Oh,'  she  exclaimed,  *I  have 
been  kissed  by  the  great  Mr.  Clay!' 

The  great  Mr.  Calhoun  failed  to  share  her  enthusiasm.  He  laid  down 
his  paper.  He  shook  his  finger  at  her.  'Amelia,'  he  warned,  'don't  you  put 
your  trust  in  that  old  man.' 

Party  bickerings  had  lost  all  interest  for  the  old  Kentuckian.  Bitterly 
he  snapped  at  a  group  of  Boston  business  leaders:  'Don't  talk  to  me 
about  the  tariff  .  .  .  when  it  is  doubtful  if  we  have  any  country  .  .  . 
lay  aside  your  sectional  jealousies  .  .  .  cease  exasperating  the  South  .  .  . 
cultivate  a  spirit  of  peace.  Save  your  country,  and  then  talk  about  your 
tariff/ 

At  dinner  one  night  he  sank  into  a  silence  so  heavy  that  a  friend  said: 
'Mr.  Clay  .  .  .  are  you  angry  at  everybody?7 

'That  is  just  it,'  Clay  replied.  'Here  is  our  country  upon  the  very  verge 
of  a  Civil  War  which  everyone  pretends  to  be  anxious  to  avoid,  yet  every- 
one wants  his  own  way,  irrespective  of  the  ...  wishes  of  others.'  At  that 
very  dinner  table,  he  declared,  were  enough  variations  of  opinion  to  settle 
the  whole  question.  'Come,  gentlemen  ...  let  me  lock  you  all  in,  and 
I  remaining  outside,  will  .  .  .  present  any  plan  of  concert  that  you  may 
agree  upon  to  the  Senate  and  advocate  it.  .  .  .' 57 


14 

Next  to  the  advent  of  Clay  himself,  Calhoun's  return  to  the  capital  that 
winter  had  stirred  the  most  sympathy  and  interest  on  the  part  of  the 
citizenry.  And  they  were  shocked  at  his  appearance;  'he  was  so  pale  and 
thin/  one  observer  wrote,  that  'he  looked  like  a  fugitive  from  the  grave.' r>8 
Weak  though  he  was,  he  sat  'bolt  upright,'  as  always,  resting  his  arms  on 


486  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

the  arms  of  his  chair.59  He  was  literally  taut  with  concern.  He  had  been 
ill  almost  from  the  day  of  his  arrival  in  Washington;  his  condition  was 
aggravated  by  the  fever  of  his  mind,  for  all — the  worst  that  he  had 
prophesied  and  feared— was  thundering  down  upon  the  country  with 
'fearful  disaster.' 

The  cords  of  the  Union  were  frayed  and  breaking.  It  took  seventeen 
days  for  the  House  to  elect  a  Speaker.  Thundering  at  the  door  of  Congress 
were  petitions  for  the  freedom  of  the  territories,  for  the  abolition  of  slav- 
ery, for  'the  dissolution  of  the  Union'  itself.  Petitions  from  the  North,  not 
the  South.  And  if  the  Southern  Bob  Toombs,  black  hair  bristling,  words 
rapping  like  machine-gun  fire,  could  shout  in  the  frenzy  of  debate,  'I 
am  for  disunion/  it  was  the  Northern  abolitionist,  Wendell  Phillips,  who 
could  coolly  write:  'We  are  disunionists.' 60 

Out  of  the  whirlwind  and  the  frothings  the  true  issues  loomed.  Presi- 
dent Taylor's  annual  message  was  read;  openly  it  advocated  a  return  to 
'that  old  odious  system  of  monopoly  which  has  been  so  effectively  put 
down  by  the  people.'  By  December  23,  the  Washington  Daily  Union  was 
quoting  the  'merchant  princes'  of  Boston  in  denunciation  of  low  tariff 
rates  as  'monstrous  to  manufacturers.'  The  farmer,  -bitterly  declared  the 
Union,  would  be  satisfied,  but  'notwithstanding  .  .  .  exorbitant  profits/ 
the  Whig  businessmen  were  'clamoring  for  more  protection.' 61 

Now,  at  last,  the  South  understood  what  Calhoun  had  been  telling 
them  all  these  years.  His  'fondest  hope'  that  party  lines  would  be  erased 
in  common  action  against  a  common  danger  seemed  'about  to  be  realized.7 

'The  South  is  aroused  to  dissolve  the  Union  immediately/  declared  the 
Columbia  Telegraph.  'The  two  great  political  parties  have  ceased  to  exist 
in  the  South  ...  so  far  as  slavery  is  concerned/  proclaimed  the  Rich- 
mond Enquirer.  'With  united  voices  they  proclaim  .  .  .  the  preservation 
of  the  Union  if  we  can,  the  preservation  of  our  own  rights  if  we  cannot.' 
'We  are  afraid/  added  the  Richmond  Republican,  a  Whig  organ,  that 
'these  men  will  find  the  South  in  earnest  when  it  is  too  late.' 82 

It  was  the  former  conservatives  who  now  seemed  most  aroused.  Even 
little  Alexander  Stephens  now  admitted:  'I  see  ...  no  hope  to  the 
South  from  the  Union.' 63  The  time  for  words  and  resolutions  was  over. 
The  time  for  uniforms  and  gunpowder  had  arrived. 


15 

'The  Southern  members  are  more  determined  and  bold  than  I  ever  saw 
them.  Many  avow  themselves  to  be  disunionists/  **  sadly  wrote  Calhoun 
on  the  twelfth  of  January,  18SO.  That  he  had  united  the  South  in  defiance 
of  submission  was  somber  comfort  to  him  in  the  face  of  the  dying  Union. 
Who  would  reap  the  whirlwind  he  had  sown?  Had  he  trained  his  followers 


XXVm  NO   COMPROMISE  WITH  DESTINY  487 

too  well?  Would  men,  trained  to  think  of  secession  only  as  a  threat,  by 
the  same  relentless  process  of  reasoning  that  he  had  outlined  seize  upon 
it  as  an  end  in  itself?  Had  he,  in  his  desperate  struggle  to  save  the  Union, 
wrought  the  weapon,  not  for  its  preservation,  but  for  its  destruction? 

And  the  North — the  unification  of  the  South  had  not  persuaded  it  to 
moderation,  as  Calhoun  had  thought  that  it  would  do.  Force  had  bred 
force;  fire  was  answered  with  fire.  "The  North  shows  no  disposition  to  de- 
sist from  aggressions'  was  Calhoun's  weary  admission.  They  now  .  .  . 
claim  the  right  to  abolish  slavery  in  all  the  old  States,  that  is  those  who 
were  originally  members  when  the  Constitution  was  adopted.' 65  Disunion 
or  submission — he  had  named  the  alternatives,  but  he  could  not  face  them. 
If  only  he  could  hold  out  until  June,  when  the  Southern  Convention 
would  assemble! 

Friends  who  visited  Calhoun  in  his  room  saw  plainly  that  he  was  'a 
broken  down  man.'  Sick  and  despondent,  tortured  with  forebodings,  his 
'mind  was  as  luminous  as  ever/  and  his  spirit  that  'of  a  patriot.' 66  Inti- 
mates heard  him  'breathe  out'  the  love  for  the  Union  that  his  pride  for- 
bade him  to  display  before  those  who  called  him  traitor  and  secessionist. 
He  could  write,  'disunion  is  the  only  alternative';  67  yet  bowed  under  the 
weight  of  what  he  thought  was  his  personal  responsibility,  he  could  not 
give  the  word  of  command. 

The  problem  was  to  be  solved  for  him.  From  his  sick-room,  he  heard 
of  the  winter-night  meeting  of  Clay  and  Webster.  Clay  would  offer  'what 
he  calls  a  compromise.'08  Calhoun  had  no  hope  of  it;  a  compromise  now 
would  be  nothing.  And  even  had  he  been  so  mistaken  as  to  think  other- 
wise, Stephen  A.  Douglas's  ill-fated  amendment  of  the  session  of  1849,  seek- 
ing to  extend  the  Missouri  Compromise  line  to  the  Pacific,  would  provide 
evidence  enough.  Supported  by  both  Davis  and  Calhoun,  the  resolution 
had  passed  the  Senate.  But  the  storm  of  outraged  letters,  telegrams,  and 
petitions  flooding  in  from  the  North  frightened  the  House  into  beating  the 
measure  down.  Could  not  men  understand  that  it  was  not  Congress,  but 
public  opinion,  that  ruled  America? 


16 

Wrapped  in  flannels  and  looking  weak  and  ill,69  Calhoun  was  in  his  seat 
on  the  raw  January  day  on  which  the  old  Kentuckian  dragged  himself  up 
the  steps  of  the  Capitol,  murmuring:  'our  country  is  in  danger,  and  if  I 
can  be  the  means  of  saving  her,  my  health  or  my  life  is  of  little  conse- 
quence.' 70  And  no  one  who  saw  or  heard  could  have  been  unmoved,  as 
drawing  his  frail  figure  erect,  summoning  every  last  resource  of  his 
strength  and  eloquence,  Clay  proudly  proclaimed:  'This  Union  is  my  coun- 
try; the  thirty  states  are  my  country;  Kentucky  is  my  country  ...  if 


488  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

my  own  State  should  raise  the  standard  of  disunion,  I  would  go  against 
her  .  .  .  much  as  I  love  her.' n 

Probably  Clay's  specific  proposals  were  as  distasteful  to  himself  as  they 
were  to  Calhoun;  yet  he  pressed  them  with  the  desperation  of  the  patriot 
who  saw  no  other  way  open.  He  threw  sops  to  both  sides;  for  the  North, 
a  free  California,  an  established  western  boundary  line  for  Texas,  squat- 
ter sovereignty  in  New  Mexico  and  Utah,  and  the  abolition  of  the  slave- 
trade  in  the  District  of  Columbia;  for  the  South,  an  ironclad  fugitive  slave 
law,  unrestricted  slave-trade  between  the  Southern  states,  and  a  guarantee 
that  slavery  would  never  be  abolished  in  the  District  of  Columbia  with- 
out the  consent  of  Maryland.  Upon  a  foundation  of  existing  realities  and 
mutual  concessions,  the  compromise  was  wrought;  but  could  not  Clay 
see  that  each  burning  question  was  a  mere  symptom  of  the  disease  which 
ravaged  the  country?  And  without  detecting  and  removing  the  cause, 
would  not  a  more  virulent  attack  break  out  again  within  five  or  ten 
years? 

Nevertheless,  Clay  won.  Probably  Calhoun  did  not  realize  it  at  first;  he 
was  taken  severely  ill  a  day  or  two  after  the  address,  and  when  he  rallied, 
weeks  later,  the  damage  was  done.  To  the  Democrats,  who  shrank  from 
Calhoun's  forcing  of  the  issue,  Clay's  moderation  offered  an  honorable 
alternative.  Furthermore,  his  way  out  was  nothing  short  of  ideal  to  the 
Whig  extremists  like  Toombs;  for  in  Calhoun's  plans  for  a  constitutional 
settlement,  the  fire-eaters  feared  that  there  might  actually  be  a  settlement, 
and  their  dreams  of  Southern  empire  would  be  shattered.  Under  the  cover 
of  compromise,  they  would  have  time  to  work  on  the  waverers,  to  unite 
the  whole  South  for  secession  and  a  Southern  Confederacy. 

They  were  wrong.  Statistical  matters  about  which  no  gentleman  con- 
cerned himself  were  against  them.  Ten  years  later  would  be  ten  years  too 
late.  Only  Calhoun  had  understood  'If  the  South  is  to  be  saved,  now  is 
the  time.' 72  Meanwhile,  in  the  name  of  patriotism,  Clay  had  divided  the 
South  and  ended  the  last  possibility  of  a  successful  united  stand  against 
Northern  domination. 


17 

The  time  had  come  for  Calhoun  to  choose  his  successor.  And  his  choice  was 
not  the  fiery  Rhett,  but  Jefferson  Davis  of  Mississippi.  This  is  not  surpris- 
ing, for  the  'man  who  looked  like  Calhoun'  was  like  him,  enough  so  to  be 
of  his  own  flesh  and  blood.  Gaunt,  bushy-browed,  clear-eyed,  Calhoun 
and  Davis  resembled  each  other,  not-only  in  appearance,  but  in  character, 
nerves,  temperament,  and  intensity  of  purpose.  Both  were  planter-scholars, 
men  to  whom  the  life  of  the  intellect  was  more  rich  and  meaningful  than 
the  exterior  world  could  ever  be.  Both  agreed  on  basic  values  in  living,  the 


NO   COMPROMISE  WITH  DESTINY  489 

agrarian  values,  without  which,  Jefferson  had  said,  no  civilization  could 
be  healthy.  They  knew  one  kind  of  life  and  from  it  drew  their  strength 
and  philosophy;  knew  it  to  be  worth  living  for  and  fighting  for. 

They  had  been  friends  since  Calhoun's  War  Secretary  days;  intimates, 
since  Davis's  entry  into  the  Senate.  No  man  so  won  Davis's  admiration 
as  Calhoun.  Like  William  Rutherford,  Jr.,  Davis  saw  his  'beau  ideal'  of 
a  statesman  in  the  man  who,  'with  a  disease  that  was  rapidly  carrying  him 
to  the  grave,5  had  rejected  all  appeals  to  'remain  quietly  at  home7  and 
returned  to  the  Capitol  to  'renew  his  labors  in  defense  of  the  Constitution 
and  the  preservation  of  the  Union.' 73  It  was  Davis  who  shared  Calhoun's 
questioning  and  struggles  during  those  dark  days;  and  never  had  Calhoun 
found  a  more  willing  listener. 

Calhoun's  own  affections  warmed  to  the  younger  man.  All  over  America 
the  Mississippian  had  been  cheered  as  a  popular  hero  since  that  day  at 
Buena  Vista,  when,  with  his  foot  shattered  and  his  boot  filling  with  blood, 
he  had  clung  to  his  saddle  and  rallied  his  men  to  victory.  But  even  more 
than  his  physical  courage,  Calhoun  admired  Davis's  integrity  and  inde- 
pendence, and  the  fortitude  that  drove  him  on  through  days  and  nights 
of  grueling  legislative  work,  although  in  continual  ill-health  and  almost 
never  free  from  pain. 

But  the  qualities  that  were  virtues  in  Calhoun  were  intensified  into  vices 
in  Jefferson  Davis.  Calhoun's  sensitivity  was  Davis's  nervous  irritability ; 
the  'iron  will'  of  the  South  Carolinian,  in  Davis  was  sheer  stubbornness. 
With  all  his  master's  overwhelming  confidence  in  the  powers  of  his  intellect, 
Davis  lacked  the  intellect  which  would  have  warranted  the  confidence. 
The  time  that  Calhoun  had  put  into  thought,  Davis  put  into  books.  Hence, 
his  accumulation  of  facts  was  great,  but  once  that  was  exhausted,  he  had 
small  powers  of  abstract  reasoning  to  fall  back  upon;  and  as  his  biographer 
points  out,  his  study  seemed  only  to  give  him  a  knowledge  of  results,  with- 
out comprehension  of  how  the  results  had  been  achieved.74  Thus,  he 
could  deny  nullification  and  yet  accept  states'  rights,  which  had  sprung 
from  the  same  premises;  where  Calhoun's  political  philosophy  was  rooted 
in  a  grimly  realistic  understanding  of  cause  and  effect,  Davis's  was  only 
doctrinaire. 

Of  human  nature,  too,  Davis  had  less  understanding  than  Calhoun. 
Proud  and  touchy,  he  seemed  cold  where  Calhoun  was  merely  grave.  Davis 
had  none  of  Calhoun's  ingenuous  ability  to  cloak  abstractions  in  the  guise 
of  simple  truths;  nor  had  he  Calhoun's  uncanny  power  for  winning  men's 
intellects  through  their  emotions.  He  could  not  control  men  who  differed 
from  him;  he  sought  to  bend  them  to  his  will.  He  could  not  delegate 
authority,  nor  conciliate  and  rally  men  of  diverse  opinion,  as  Calhoun  had 
done,  drawing  from  each  the  strength  that  would  suit  his  own  central 
purpose.  Davis  was  no  creator  of  causes;  he  could  only  lead  the  cause 
ready-made.  He  was  a  man  temperamentally  and  idealistically  akin  to  Cal- 


490  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 

houn,  but  the  difference  between  them  was  the  difference  between  talent 
and  genius. 

In  selecting  Davis,  instead  of  Rhett,  as  his  successor,  Calhoun's  emo- 
tions had  betrayed  him  into  a  tragic  mistake.  With  the  South  united  at 
last  in  recognition  of  its  danger,  the  need  was  for  a  leader  who  realized,  as 
Calhoun  did,  that  now  was  the  time  'to  force  the  issue  upon  the  North/ 
Rhett  understood  this  perfectly.  But  Davis  was  not  only  chained  by  Cal- 
houn's own  emotional  affection  for  the  Union,  but  lacked  the  relentless 
foresight  of  the  older  man.  Davis,  though  disclaiming  all  patchwork  com- 
promise measures,  would  fail  to  join  Rhett  in  rallying  the  South  to  a  stand 
at  Nashville  the  following  summer.  He  would  waste  the  next  ten  years  in 
holding  off  disunionist  sentiment  in  the  South  and  in  futile  attempts  to  find 
constitutional  means  of  hampering  the  strength  of  the  North. 


18 

The  report  was  current  in  Washington  through  February,  1850,  that  Cal- 
houn himself  would  answer  Clay,  would  rally  his  strength  in  a  last  plea  for 
the  Constitution  above  compromise,  for  the  South's  safety  within  the 
Union.  But  few  believed  it.  He  appeared  in  the  Senate  occasionally,  'look- 
ing pale  and  ghastly/  the  newsmen  observed,  'and  ought  not  soon  to 
venture  upon  a  speech.'  Most  of  the  time  he  was  in  bed,  'too  weak  even  to 
hold  a  pen.'75  Yet  the  report  persisted.  He  had  dictated  his  speech;  he 
would  deliver  it  on  March  fourth. 

News  that  the  great  Carolinian  would  rise,  almost  from  his  deathbed,  to 
voice  his  last  warnings  against  the  self-destruction  of  the  American  Union, 
'early  crowded  the  galleries  and  even  the  floor  of  the  Senate'  with  'a 
brilliant  and  expectant  audience.'  Long  before  convening  time  at  noon,  all 
exits  were  blocked.  Nearly  every  Senate  seat  was  occupied  by  'a  repre- 
sentative of  the  fairer  .  .  .  portion  of  humanity,'  as  the  New  York 
Tribune  correspondent  noted,  and  it  was  necessary  to  take  a  vote  to  legalize 
their  presence.  The  crowd  was  'smaller  than  when  Clay  spoke,'  but  it  was 
'nevertheless  very  dense.' 76 

A  hush  rested  over  the  throng.  Voices  sunk  into  whispers;  faces  were 
tense  with  anxiety.  Again  and  again  eyes  turned  to  the  empty  seat  between 
James  Whitcomb  of  Indiana  and  Jefferson  Davis — Calhoun's  chair.77  At 
last  there  was  a  stir  at  the  door.  The  crowd  parted.  Leaning  upon  the  arm 
of  his  friend,  James  Hamilton,  Calhoun  entered  the  Chamber  with  slow, 
dragging  steps  and  sank  into  his  seat,  his  head  bent,  white  hands  clenching 
the  arms  of  his  chair.  In  the  gallery  sat  men  and  women  who  could  re- 
member him  when  he  had  first  walked  into  the  House  in  October,  1811, 
dark-haired  and  erect,  and  tears  now  filled  their  eyes. 


XXVIH  NO  COMPROMISE  WITH   DESTINY  491 

Now  he  was  almost  too  weak  to  stand  alone.  It  was  some  minutes  before 
he  was  able  to  drag  himself  to  his  feet/8  For  a  moment  he  stood,  glancing 
proudly  about  the  Chamber  where  he  had  ruled  for  so  long.  Once  more 
the  familiar  faces  rose  before  him.  At  last  he  spoke.  He  thanked  the 
Senate  for  the  Very  courteous  way  in  which  they  have  permitted  me  to 
be  heard  today/  79  then  passed  a  manuscript  over  to  Senator  James  Mason 
of  Virginia. 

The  speaker  arose.  Wind  was  blowing  through  an  open  window.  Against 
the  silence,  Mason's  voice  rang  out  the  somber  words  of  Calhoun's  dying 
message,  while  at  his  side  its  author  sat  like  a  disembodied  spirit,'  a  long, 
black  cloak  wrapped  about  his  emaciated  form,  his  head  unwaveringly 
erect,  his  rugged  features  as  white  and  motionless  as  if  sculptured  in 
marble.80 

It  was  like  a  great  funeral  ceremony  with  the  corpse  sitting  by.  For 
death  was  written  on  Calhoun's  face  and  there  were  those  who  feared  that 
its  shadow  was  hanging  too  over  the  Senate  of  the  United  States,  the 
South,  and  the  whole  country.81 

In  those  last  words,  in  the  tragic  summary  of  Calhoun's  lifelong  hopes 
and  fears,  there  was  neither  passion  nor  abuse;  no  threats,  no  anger.  His 
words  were  muted,  'curiously  gentle/  and  yet  somehow  all  the  more 
terrible  for  that.  They  held  the  hopelessness  of  despair.  He  had  nothing 
to  say  except  what  he  had  said  so  many  times  before,  but  now  for  the 
first  time  the  Senate  could  listen  and  understand.  Was  it  only  fourteen 
months  since  Toombs  had  dismissed  Calhoun's  warnings  and  calls  for  a 
united  South  as  a  mere  'miserable  attempt'  to  form  a  Southern  party, 
eventuating  in  a  wrecked  Union  and  a  Southern  Confederacy,  with  John 
C.  Calhoun  at  its  head?  Was  it  only  last  June  that  the  Whig,  Humphrey 
Cobb,  indignant  at  Calhoun's  attempts  to  unite  the  South  in  the  Dem- 
ocratic Party,  had  dismissed  the  South  Carolinian  as  'our  evil  genius/ 
warning  that  'unless  he  is  stopt  ...  we  shall  be  overwhelmed  in  the  fall 
elections'?  Elections!  Party  labels!  What  did  they  matter?  *2  Now  at  last, 
and  too  late,  the  South  could  take  Calhoun's  words  at  their,  face  value, 
and  understand  the  somber  truth  of  what  he  had  been  trying  to  tell  them 
all  along. 

Now,  at  last,  no  one  doubted  his  sincerity.  No  human  yearnings  could 
longer  torment  that  spectral  figure,  that  'ghost  with  burning  eyes.'  With 
nothing  but  the  grave  before  him,  he  had  surrendered  none  of  Ms  con- 
victions, 'yielded  not  an  inch  of  his  creed.7 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  Northerners  and  Southerners  knew  that  Calhoun 
had  spoken  the  truth  when  he  had  bitterly  declared  that  he  who  warned 
of  danger  was  not  the  creator  of  that  danger.  If  it  were  true  that  his  in- 
sistence that  the  South  assert  her  'rights'  had  aroused  an  equal  determina- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  North,  it  was  also  true  that  he  had  neither  created 
slavery  nor  the  South's  adherence  to  slavery;  that  in  the  hands  of  a  more 


492  JOHN  C.   CALHOUN 

passionate  man,  slavery  might  well  have  bred  a  civil  war  years  before. 

He  had  failed  because  no  one  man  can  accomplish  the  impossible.  The 
most  ironclad  constitutional  theorizing  cannot  hold  in  check  the  onrush  of 
economic  progress  and  ambition,  especially  when  such  ambition  is  drenched 
in  moral  idealism.  Had  his  patriotism  been  more  narrow,  had  he  ruth- 
lessly endeavored  to  preserve  the  South  against  the  Union,  or  the  Union 
against  the  South,  he  might  have  won.  But  in  looking  to  all,  he  had 
lost  all.  The  Union  was  lost  and  the  South  would  rally,  neither  to  save  it 
nor  to  save  herself.  It  was  no  consolation  to  him  that  now  even  his  enemies 
could  agree  that  he  had  'clearly  vindicated  himself  from  the  charge  that 
he  desired  disunion.' M  This  was  no  traitor,  tearing  his  country  apart  to 
feed  his  vanity,  but  a  broken-hearted  patriot. 

His  first  words  struck  the  keynote  of  despair.  'I  have  .  .  .  believed  from 
the  first  that  the  agitation  of  slavery  would,  if  not  prevented  .  .  .  end 
in  disunion.'  What  had  endangered  the  Union?  'The  immediate  cause  is 
the  almost  universal  discontent'  of  the  South,  'the  belief  of  the  people 
that  they  cannot  remain  ...  in  the  Union.'  What  was  the  'great  and 
primary  cause?  .  .  .  The  equilibrium  between  the  two  sections,  as  it 
stood  when  the  Constitution  was  ratified/  had  been  destroyed.  Once  each 
section  had  had  the  means  to  protect  itself  against  'the  aggressions  of  the 
other  .  .  .  now  .  .  .  one  section  has  the  exclusive  power  of  controlling  the 
Government,'  and  the  other  no  means  of  protection. 

Had  this  destruction  been  the  operation  of  time,  the  South  would  not 
have  complained.  But  it  was  the  work  of  government,  'of  the  common 
agent  of  all  ...  charged  with  the  protection  ...  of  all.'  From  the  Ordi- 
nance of  1787  to  the  Missouri  Compromise,  and  now  in  the  Oregon  and 
Mexican  territories,  the  South  had  been  deliberately  excluded  from  the 
lands  belonging  to  all.  Tariff  revenues,  drawn  from  Southern  funds,  had 
put  'hundreds  of  millions  of  dollars'  into  the  pockets  of  Northern  in- 
dustrialists. New  industries  were  daily  springing  into  birth;  had  Southern 
funds  been  spent  in  the  section  from  which  they  were  drawn,  the  South, 
too,  could  have  won  immigrants,  have  increased  her  population,  and  main- 
tained her  numerical  superiority. 

Finally,  the  government's  own  actions  had  concentrated  'all  the  powers 
of  the  system  into  itself.'  The  process  had  commenced  'at  an  early  period 
of  the  Government;  and  proceeded  until  it  absorbed  virtually  its  entire 
powers.  .  .  .  The  Government  claims  ...  the  right  to  decide  ...  as  to 
the  extent  of  its  power  ...  it  also  claims  the  right  to  resort  to  force  to 
maintain  .  .  .  power.  .  .  .  What  limitation  can  possibly  be  placed  upon 
the  powers  of  a  government  claiming  and  exercising  such  rights?'  How 
could  the  states  maintain  the  powers  which  the  Constitution  had  reserved 
to  them?  From  a  Federal  Republic  in  actual  practice  the  government  had 
been  changed  'into  a  great  national  consolidated  democracy  ...  as  des- 
potic in  its  tendency  as  any  absolute  Government  that  ever  existed.' 


XXVIII  NO   COMPROMISE   WITH   DESTINY  493 

The  Northern  states  were  in  ascendancy  over  every  department  of  the 
government.  The  Southern  states  had  no  means  by  which  they  could  resist. 
Yet  this  might  be  tolerated  were  it  not  for  the  great  diversity  of  economic 
interests  which  separated  the  two  peoples. 

The  whole  North,  declared  Calhoun,  was  against  slavery.  The  most  ex- 
treme condemned  it  as  mortal  sin.  The  least  regarded  it  as  a  'stain'  on  the 
national  character.  But  to  the  South  the  institution  was  basic.  The  rela- 
tionship between  the  two  races  was  entangled  with  the  entire  social  organi- 
zation. If  destroyed,  it  would  subject  the  two  peoples  to  the  greatest 
calamity,  and  the  entire  section  'to  poverty  and  wretchedness.7 

Slowly,  step  by  step,  he  outlined  the  rise  of  slavery  agitation:  the  growth 
of  the  abolitionist  societies;  the  wooing  of  the  two  great  political  parties, 
making  concession  after  concession  to  abolitionist  demands  in  their  eager- 
ness for  power;  the  state  laws  which  openly  nullified  the  fugitive  slave 
provisions;  and  finally,  the  movement  to  exclude  slavery  and  the  South 
from  every  new  territory  to  be  added  to  the  Union. 

Only  one  more  step  remained.  That  was  the  emancipation  of  the  black 
race  in  the  Southern  states.  Already  the  South  was  confronted  with  the 
single  question:  abolition  or  secession.  But  secession  was  not  necessary  to 
tear  the  Union  apart.  Already  the  work  of  destruction  was  under  way.  The 
cords  of  faith  and  fellowship  and  plighted  troth,  which  the  people  of  the 
States  had  woven  together  for  their  'general  welfare,'  for  the  creation  of 
one  Union,  were  snapping  one  after  another.  Soon  the  'whole  fabric'  would 
fall  asunder.  Already  the  spiritual  ties  were  broken:  the  great  church 
fellowships — the  Methodists,  the  Baptists,  the  Presbyterians — met  in 
fellowship  no  more.  North  and  South,  the  great  faiths  had  divided;  only 
the  Episcopalians  remained  united. 

Now  the  political  parties  were  splitting  off  into  sectionalism,  Calhoun 
pointed  out,  ignoring  his  own  efforts  to  bring  about  that  particular  situa- 
tion. Soon  every  cord  of  the  Union  would  be  snapped — but  the  bond  of 
force  itself.  But  what  true  union  was  the  union  of  force?  Only  a  union  of 
free,  independent  and  sovereign  states  was  worthy  of  the  sacred  name. 

How  could  the  Union  be  saved?  Not  by  eulogies.  Southern  assailants 
could  cry  out  the  name  of  the  Union,  but  if  they  'loved  the  Union,  they 
would  be  devoted  to  the  Constitution.  It  made  the  Union — and  to  destroy 
the  Constitution  would  be  to  destroy  the  Union.'  A  true  lover  of  the 
Constitution  would  neither  violate  it  nor  permit  others  to  do  so. 

Nor  could  it  be  saved  by  eulogies  on  'that  illustrious  Southerner  whose 
mortal  remains  repose  on  the  western  bank  of  the  Potomac.'  He  was  one 
of  us,  'a  slaveholder  and  a  planter.'  He  was  devoted  to  the  union  with 
England,  not  as  an  end,  but  'as  a  means  to  an  end.  When  it  was  con- 
verted into  the  means  of  oppression,  he  headed  the  movement  of  resistance. 
...  I  trust  ...  we  have  profited  by  his  example.' 

The  South  had  no  compromise  to  offer,  no  platform  but  the  Constitution. 


494  JOHN    C.    CALHOUN 

Could  the  Union  be  saved?  'Yes,  easily.  The  North  has  only  to  will  it  to 
achieve  it.'  She  must  concede  the  South  equal  rights  in  the  new  territories. 
She  must  give  up  the  fugitive  slaves — and  cease  the  'agitation  of  the  slave 
question.'  Furthermore,  she  must  concur  in  a  constitutional  amendment, 
restoring  'the  original  equilibrium  between  the  two  sections.'  He  knew  that 
the  North  would  not  'will  it/  and  that  to  the  necessary  amendments  she 
would  never  concur.*  But  he  had  no  more  to  offer.  The  South  had  no  more 
to  offer.  'The  South  asks  for  justice,  simple  justice,  and  less  she  ought  not 
to  take.7  If  the  North  would  not  agree  to  a  settlement,  let  her  say  so,  and 
the  states  could  'part  in  peace.'  If  she  would  not  permit  secession,  'tell  us 
so,  and  we  shall  know  what  to  do,'  when  faced  with  the  alternatives  of 
'submission  or  resistance.'  As  for  himself,  he  had,  at  least,  the  comfort  of 
knowing  that  come  what  might,  he  was  free  from  all  personal  responsi- 
bility.84 

*  Even  Daniel  Webster  recognized  the  strength  of  Calhoun's  position.  Speaking  in 
Washington  on  July  4,  1851,  Webster  warned  that  if  the  Northern  states  refused, 
'wilfully  and  deliberately ,'  to  obey  the  fugitive  slave  provisions  of  the  Constitution, 
'the  South  would  no  longer  be  bound  to  observe  the  compact.'  (In  1833,  Webster  had 
vehemently  denied  that  the  Constitution  was  a  compact.)  'A  bargain  cannot  be 
broken  on  one  side,  and  still  bind  the  other  side.5  Curtis,  Webster,  II,  p.  519. 


XXIX 

When  Rome  Survived 


CALHOUN  HAD  SPOKEN  for  posterity.  It  was  for  later  generations  to  acclaim 
his  speech  as  the  most  powerful  warning  delivered  by  a  Southern  leader 
before  the  Civil  War.  Only  that  war  itself,  history's  proof  of  his  prophecies, 
would  lift  the  curtain  on  meanings  that  baffled  even  his  Southern  listeners 
at  the  time.  His  words  would  not  be  forgotten.  The  time  would  come  when 
they  would  be  remembered  with  terror  and  shrinking,  but  their  meaning 
was  not  then  understood. 

None  doubted  the  terrible  sincerity  of  this  dying  message;  none  but 
felt  a  cold  chill  of  fear  at  that  spectral  figure  before  them.  'Impressive  as 
were  his  words/  Nathan  Sargent  commented,  'his  own  appearance  was 
infinitely  more  so.' x  None  doubted  the  sincerity  of  the  South,  united  at 
last.  But  it  was  not  yet  united  in  realizing  the  depths  of  its  danger. 

Slowly  Senate  and  spectators  roused  themselves.  A  stir  rippled  across 
the  long-held  quiet.  Only  then  did  Calhoun  move,  his  dark  eyes  'glowing 
with  meteor-like  brilliance/  as  anxiously  he  searched  face  after  face,  as  if 
to  read  the  effect  of  his  words.  With  his  friends  there  was  no  question; 
his  intellect  they  regarded  as  'superior  to  any  other  of  past  or  present 
times/  2  but  this  was  not  the  answer  he  was  looking  for. 

Webster  stepped  to  his  side,  then  Henry  Clay.  Once  more  the  Triumvirate 
stood  together  behind  the  Vice-President's  desk.  Then  a  group  of  Calhoun's 
fervent  young  admirers  closed  in  on  him.  He  'received  them  with  cordiality, 
his  eyes  shining  with  a  new  brightness/  a  reporter  noted,  and  a  few  minutes 
later  could  clearly  be  heard  exhorting  them  to  'at  any  rate  ...  be  men.' 3 

His  energy  quickly  waned.  Two  friends  hurried  to  his  side  and  gently 
supported  him  out  of  the  Chamber.  A  hush  fell  over  the  room — and  sud- 
denly, spontaneously,  the  entire  Senate  and  gallery  arose  and  stood  in 
tribute.4 

For  all  their  unfaltering  logic,  the  tragic  appearance  of  the  author  had 
weighted  Calhoun's  words  with  an  emotional,  rather  than  a  logical,  appeal. 
To  many  it  seemed  impossible  that  his  thinking  was  not  darkened  by  his 
physical  condition.  It  was  a  sick,  a  dying  man  who  had  looked  so  darkly 
into  the  future.  The  future  was  not  dark.  Never  had  it  been  so  bright.  No 


496  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

one,  asserted  the  Bay  State's  Governor  Davis,  looked  to  see  the  country 
break  in  two  except  Calhoun,  'who  .  .  .  has  brooded  so  long  on  the  sub- 
ject' The  people  'cannot  believe  in  the  probability  of  danger,'  declared 
the  National  Intelligencer.  'There  are  so  many  signs  of  an  unprecedented 
national  prosperity.'  New  York's  Philip  Hone,  also  aware  of  the  wave 
of  Northern  prosperity  rolling  in  from  the  white-capped  cotton  fields,  read 
the  Calhoun  appeal  and  tossed  it  aside  in  impatience.  'This  is  probably  his 
last  kick  and  the  sooner  he  is  done  kicking  the  better.' 5 

To  the  Philadelphia  Public  Ledger  the  speech  was  a  'firebrand  ...  far 
inferior  to  his  former  efforts.'  It  was  repetitious,  containing  nothing  which 
he  had  not  said  before;  a  criticism  true  enough,  although  it  failed  to  ap- 
preciate that  Calhoun  had  spoken  in  summary.  The  stark  realism  of  his 
words  offended  the  Ledger's  sensibilities.  Was  this  'glaring  materialism, 
this  arbitrary  exclusion  of  progress,'  the  true  essence  of  our  political 
system?  6 

Only  the  New  York  Herald  grasped  the  significance  of  the  words.  The 
speech  was  'a  masterly  survey,'  the  most  important,  so  far  'as  its  effects  are 
to  be  considered,  that  has  ever  been  delivered  in  the  Senate.'  The  'wrongs 
of  the  South'  were  set  forth  without  appeal  'to  the  sympathies  of  one  sec- 
tion, or  to  the  passions  of  the  other.'  His  expos6  of  the  fraying  religious  and 
social  ties  between  the  two  sections  was  'startling.' 7 

The  North  Carolina  Standard  wished  only  that  the  South  had  believed 
Calhoun  fifteen  years  earlier.  'He  goes  deeper  into  the  cause  of  things  than 
any  other  man.'  No  one  had  been  so  'green/  was  the  comment  of  the 
Fayetteville,  North  Carolina,  paper,  as  to  believe  that  the  call  for  the 
Southern  Convention  was  sounded  at  the  behest  of  Mississippi.  It  was  from 
South  Carolina,  'and  ...  in  Mr.  Calhoun's  speech,  we  have  a  revelation 
of  the  purpose.  ...  It  is  to  demand  .  .  .  impossible  concessions  .  .  . 
that  if  not  granted  ...  the  South  will  secede.' 

'Reckless'  was  the  verdict  of  the  Wheeling  Gazette.  Calhoun's  address 
was  'characteristic  of  one  whose  daring  spirit,  though  it  may  have  aroused 
and  excited  a  multitude,  could  never  lead  or  control  them.'  The  Marys- 
ville  Eagle  condemned  the  South  Carolinian  for  pointing  out  dangers 
without  remedies.  He  was  now,  declared  the  paper,  'about  to  encounter  the 
eternal  world/  Let  him  not  go  down  as  a  disunionist,  'in  the  blackness  of 
eternal  night.' 8 


Aglow  with  excitement,  Calhoun  finally  returned  to  Hill's  boarding  house. 
He  could  neither  rest  nor  relax.  Instead,  he  wrote  his  friend,  H.  W.  Conner: 
'My  speech  .  .  .  was  read  today.  .  .  .  My  friends  think  it  among  my 
most  successful.  ...  I  have  made  up  the  issue  between  North  and  South. 


XXIX  WHEN  ROME   SURVIVED  497 

If  we  flinch,  we  are  gone;  but  if  we  stand  fast  ...  we  shall  triumph, 
either  by  compelling  the  North  to  yield  to  our  terms,  or  declaring  our  In- 
dependence of  them.' 9 

Exhausted,  he  lay  abed  the  next  day.  By  afternoon  came  disquieting 
news.  Fiery  young  Foote,  the  Mississippi  Whig,  had  taken  advantage  of 
Calhoun's  absence  to  engage  in  a  personal  misinterpretation  of  his  opinions. 
Calhoun's  address,  Foote  claimed,  had  been  'hurtful'  to  the  South  and  to 
the  Union  in  whose  cause  it  was  delivered.  It  was  not  representative.  The 
South  did  not  despair  of  the  Union.  What  right  had  Mr.  Calhoun  to  speak 
for  the  South  and  the  Southern  leadership? 

Calhoun  was  indignant.  When  well,  he  'rose  superior'  to  censure  or 
abuse,  but  in  his  weak  and  depressed  condition  the  attack  assumed  gigan- 
tic proportions.  So  they  thought  him  too  feeble  to  'repel  ...  his  antago- 
nists!' Grimly,  he  dragged  himself  from  his  bed  and  out  into  the  water- 
soaked  air  of  a  Washington  March. 

Mrs.  Jefferson  Davis,  sitting  on  a  stool  on  the  floor  of  the  Senate,  saw 
him  come  in,  'supported  on  each  side  by  a  Senator,'  breathing  'in  short 
gasps,'  his  eyes  'lustrous  with  fever,'  but  his  'eagle  glance  swept  the 
Senate  in  the  old  lordly  way.'  As  he  passed  Varina,  he  gave  her  'one  burn- 
ing hand,'  whispered,  'My  child,  I  am  too  weak  to  stop,7  and  dropped  into 
his  chair. 

Benton  had  risen.  Now  he  hesitated,  took  one  look  at  his  old  enemy  and 
said  gently,  'I  have  nothing  to  say.' 

But  Foote  indulged  in  no  such  delicacy.  For  over  an  hour  he  'baited'  the 
dying  leader,  while  Benton  kept  up  an  indignant  whisper:  'No  brave  man 
could  do  this  infamy.  Shame!  Shame!'  Davis  and  several  other  Senators 
tried  to  spare  Calhoun  the  strain  of  replying,  but  without  avail.  Bending 
his  tall  body  over  the  desk,  as  'he  found  his  strength  failing/  Calhoun 
'spoke  to  the  point,'  his  voice  weak,  but  his  meaning  unmistakably  clear.10 
'I  have  never  pretended  to  be  the  leader  of  any  man,'  was  his  reply  to 
Foote's  accusations.  'When  I  speak,  I  speak  for  myself  upon  my  individual 
responsibility.' 

He  was  plainly  'much  agitated,' u  'It  is  in  vain,'  he  protested,  'for  any 
man  to  say  he  loves  the  Union  if  he  does  not  protect  the  Constitution;  for 
that  is  the  bond  that  made  the  Union.'  But  the  Constitution  had  been  mis- 
interpreted. The  South  could  no  longer  live  in  the  Union  on  terms  of 
equality  without  a  'specific  guaranty  that  she  shall  enjoy  her  rights  un- 
molested.' 

Foote  retorted  that  he  believed  the  question  could  be  settled  in  ten  days. 

'I  agree  with  our  ancestors,'  was  Calhoun's  reply,  'They  thought  liberty 
required  guaranties.' 

Foote  countered  Calhoun's  charges  of  the  day  preceding.  He  could  not 
believe  that  all  the  North  was  hostile  or  opposed  to  the  South. 

'More  or  less  hostile/  snapped  Calhoun.  If  it  came  to  a  stand,  all 


498  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 

Northern  factions  would  unite  against  the  South.  'Unless  there  be  a  pro- 
vision in  the  Constitution  to  protect  us  ...  the  two  sections  of  this 
Union  will  never  live  in  harmony.' 

'I  talk  very  little  about  whether  I  am  a  Union  man  or  not,'  said  Cal- 
houn  softly.  'I  put  no  confidence  in  professions.  ...  I  challenge  com- 
parison with  any  man  here.  ...  I  appeal  ...  if  there  be  any  man  who 
has  abstained  more  carefully  from  ...  a  violation  of  the  Constitution. 
...  If  I  am  judged  by  my  acts,  I  trust  I  shall  be  found  as  firm  a  friend 
of  the  Union  as  any  man  within  it.' 

'There  are  two  ways  of  treating  the  subject: — one  is  by  speaking,  and 
the  other  by  acting.  Of  the  two,  the  latter  is  most  effective.  ...  If  any 
Senator  .  .  .  chooses  to  comment  upon  what  I  have  said,  I  trust  I  shall 
have  health  to  defend  my  .  .  .  position.'  ** 

The  effort  had  been  'too  much  for  his  exhausted  frame.' 1S  He  sank  back 
into  his  chair,  and  to  Varina  Davis  it  seemed  that  he  'would  die  on  our 
hands  with  a  little  more.' 14  Quickly,  his  friends  gathered  around,  half-led 
and  half -carried  him  off  the  floor,  drove  him  home,  and  put  him  to  bed; 
and  for  the  next  forty-eight  hours  he  was  perfectly  content  to  remain  there. 


On  March  6,  1850,  a  stately,  slow-moving  figure,  his  great  head  sunk  upon 
his  chest,  mounted  the  steps  of  Hill's  boarding  house.  In  the  background 
bystanders  whispered.  Daniel  Webster  was  calling  upon  Mr.  Calhoun. 

Webster  had  'an  exalted  opinion'  of  Calhoun's  genius.  He  considered  the 
South  Carolinian  'much  the  ablest  man  in  the  Senate,'  the  greatest  man, 
in  fact,  that  he  had  met  in  his  entire  public  life.  Most  of  all,  however,  he 
cherished  him  as  a  personal  friend.  Despite  years  of  political  differences, 
there  still  existed  between  them  'a  great  deal  of  personal  kindness.' 15  Web- 
ster could  not  conceive  how  such  a  man  could  have  enemies  so  bitter. 
Aware  of  the  Southerner's  steadily  ebbing  strength  for  several  years  past, 
he  had  endeavored  to  reconcile  Benton  to  him,  but  the  gruff  old  Missourian 
was  obdurate. 

'Webster,'  he  had  said,  'don't  you  mention  that  to  me.  ...  I  won't  be 
reconciled  to  Calhoun — I  won't,  sir.  ...  I  won't  have  anything  to  do 
with  him.  .  .  .  My  mind  is  made  up,  sir.  .  .  .  Anybody  else,  but  not  Cal- 
houn. He  is  a  humbug,  and  I  won't  do  it  sir.' lft 

Now  the  two  men  faced  each  other,  Webster  in  his  familiar  blue  coat 
and  buff  breeches,  to  a  casual  observer  still  the  commanding  figure  of  his 
prime;  though  an  old  friend  like  Calhoun  would  have  noted  the  thinning 
hair  and  thickening  body;  Calhoun,  his  strength  now  completely  gone, 
lay  flat  on  his  back,  'ghastly  pale,'  his  face  'cut  deep  with  lines  of  suffering 
endured  in  silence.' 


XXIX  WHEN  ROME   SURVIVED  499 

Solicitously  Webster  inquired  after  his  health — perhaps  with  his  old 
greeting — 'How  do  the  men  of  '82  stand  on  their  pins?7  Calhoun  shook 
his  head  silently.17 

Webster  broached  the  subject  of  his  own  forthcoming  speech.  Calhoun's 
eyes  burned  with  eagerness.  He  wished  he  could  hear  it.  Webster  hoped 
that  he  would  be  able  to  return  to  the  Senate.  He  was  particularly  anxious 
that  his  South  Carolina  friends  be  present.  Calhoun  shook  his  head.  He 
felt  that  he  would  never  leave  his  bed  again.18 

It  was  the  seventh  of  March,  1850.  Webster  had  been  speaking  only  a 
few  moments.  Save  for  the  deep,  booming  cadences  of  his  voice,  the  Senate 
Chamber  was  still.  Even  the  plumed  fans  had  ceased  to  move.  All  eyes  were 
fixed  on  his  majestic  form,  his  dark,  somber  face.  Only  Peter  Harvey,  a 
reporter,  saw  the  Hall  gaunt  figure'  in  the  black  cloak,  with  the  'deep 
cavernous  black  eyes  and  .  .  .  thick  mass  of  snow-white  hair'  enter  the 
Chamber  from  the  Vice-President's  office  and  slowly  drag  himself  toward 
the  nearest  seat.  He  swayed  as  he  approached  it;  and  a  Senator  sprang 
to  his  side  and  helped  him  into  an  easy-chair,  where  he  sank,  trembling, 
scarcely  able  to  move. 

Webster  had  not  seen  him.  But  suddenly  he  referred  to  cthe  distinguished 
and  venerable  Senator  from  South  Carolina,  who  is  unfortunately  prevented 
by  serious  illness  from  being  in  his  seat  today.' 

Calhoun  stirred.  Bending  his  head  and  shoulders  forward,  he  struggled  to 
rise  and  interrupt,  but  sank  back,  while  Webster's  flow  of  rhetoric  con- 
tinued undisturbed.  A  few  moments  later,  Webster  referred  again  to  'the 
eminent  Senator  from  South  Carolina,  whom  we  all  regret  so  much  to  miss 
from  such  a  cause  from  his  seat  today.' 

This  was  too  much  for  Calhoun.  Eyes  gleaming,  nervous  hands  grasping 
at  the  arms  of  his  chair,  abruptly  he  summoned  the  last  of  his  fleeting 
energies,  pulled  his  frail  body  erect,  threw  back  his  head,  and  in  a  voice 
hollow,  ghostlike,  yet  clear  in  every  corner  of  the  Chamber,  proudly  an- 
nounced: 'The  Senator  from  South  Carolina  is  in  his  seat.' 19 

Webster  started.  He  turned,  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Not  in  his 
wildest  moments  had  he  dreamed  that  his  friend  would  rise  from  what 
he  actually  believed  to  be  his  deathbed,  to  hear  his  words.  Touched  beyond 
expression,  he  impulsively  extended  his  hands  and  bowed  low.20  Later  in 
the  address,  Calhoun  interrupted  for  a  short  defense  of  his  stand  on  Texas, 
and  at  the  conclusion  again  briefly  took  the  floor.  He  spoke  now  with 
'surprising  resonance'  of  voice,  and  the  correspondent  of  the  New  York 
Tribune,  who  had  visited  him  in  his  room  a  few  days  before  when  he 
could  scarcely  whisper,  recorded  with  amazement  that  'You  would  have 
sworn,  had  you  heard  him,  that  his  lungs  would  last  for  years.' 21 

His  words  were  conciliatory.  A  year  or  two  before,  he  would  have  in- 
sisted that  the  South's  abstract  rights  to  slavery  in  all  sections  be  fully 


500  JOHN   C.    CALHOUN 

maintained;  but  now,  in  the  face  of  the  ominous  reality  that  confronted 
him,  he  would  sacrifice  his  abstractions,  even  adhere  to  the  line  of  the 
Missouri  Compromise,  if  only  the  lands  possible  to  slavery  could  be  opened 
to  slavery.  As  for  the  rest,  he  agreed  with  Webster:  'Leave  that  portion 
of  the  country  more  natural  to  a  non-slaveholding  population  to  be  filled 
by  that  description  of  population.' 

'No  man/  Calhoun  concluded,  'would  feel  more  happy  than  myself  to 
believe  that  this  Union  should  live  forever.  ...  I  ...  believe  that  I  have 
never  done  one  act  which  would  weaken  it,  that  I  have  done  full  justice  to 
all  sections.'  But  if  the  Union  could  not  be  broken,  that  in  itself  would  be 
enough  to  prove  its  tyranny.  And  broken,  it  could  be.  'Great  moral  causes 
will  break  it,  if  they  go  on.3  ** 

Great  moral  causes  1  Not  consolidation.  Not  secession  alone.  Slavery 
had  become  a  moral  cause  to  the  people  of  the  North.  As  such,  the  Union 
was  already  broken,  not  in  paper  contracts  and  compacts,  but  in  the 
plighted  spiritual  troth  upon  which  even  the  Constitution  itself  rested. 

What  he  did  know  was  that  Daniel  Webster,  in  supporting  the  Clay 
Compromises,  had  won.  It  mattered  not  that  his  repudiation  might  result, 
that  already  Northern  editorials  were  speaking  of  'traitorism'  and  'be- 
trayal,' the  Boston  Post  admitting  that  opinion  on  his  stand  was  'con- 
flicting, even  among  his  friends,'  the  New  York  Tribune  warning  that 
Webster's  address  'has  .  .  .  received  no  solid  mark  of  approval  from  the 
North.' M  To  the  South  Daniel  Webster  was  the  North.  He  was  the  North 
offering  conciliation,  and  it  was  difficult,  indeed,  for  Southerners  to  re- 
member Calhoun's  merciless  logic  when  Webster  spoke  of  unity  and 
patriotism.  Few  Northern  papers  were  circulated  in  the  South  now,  and 
for  the  South,  as  a  whole,  Webster's  olive  branch  was  guarantee  enough. 

Virtually  the  entire  Southern  press  applauded  Webster's  words.  Con- 
versely, many  condemned  Calhoun's  insistence  on  a  constitutional  amend- 
ment as  'impracticable,'  if  not  actually  mischievous.  The  necessity  was  now 
at  an  end,  the  Virginia  Free  Press  declared.  Even  Calhoun's  own  Charles- 
ton Mercury  praised  Webster's  address  as  'noble  in  language,  generous 
and  conciliatory  in  tone.'  Significantly  it  added:  'Mr.  Calhoun's  clear 
and  powerful  exposition  would  have  had  something  of  a  decisive  effect,  if 
it  had  not  been  so  soon  followed  by  Mr.  Webster's  masterly  playing.'  24 
Not  even  to  save  herself  would  the  South  secede  now.  Webster's  assurances 
had  blinded  her  to  her  danger. 

But  they  did  not  blind  Calhoun.  He  knew  the  futility  of  Congressional 
concessions  unbacked  by  the  voluntary  desire  of  the  people.  As  he  said: 
'It  is  impossible  to  execute  any  law  of  Congress  until  the  people  of  the 
States  shall  co-operate.' 25 

On  March  18,  in  a  wavering  hand  Calhoun  signed  a  letter  to  Conner, 
predicting  that  lie  effect  of  Webster's  words  would  be  only  temporary.  'He 
could  not  sustain  himself  at  the  North  with  either  party,'  Calhoun  stated. 


XXIX  WHEN  ROME  SURVIVED  SOI 

'Can  anything  more  clearly  evince  the  utter  hopelessness  of  looking  to  the 
North  for  support,  when  their  strongest  man  finds  himself  incapable  of 
maintaining  himself  on  the  smallest  amount  possible  of  concession  to  the 
South;  ...  and  on  points  too  clear  to  admit  of  constitutional  doubt?'2* 
Yet  the  speech  had  been  sufficient  for  its  immediate  purpose.  'If  Mr.  Cal- 
houn's speech  made  a  deep  impression  here/  stated  the  New  York  Herald, 
'Mr.  Webster's  has  made  a  deeper.3  27 


Under  the  spur  of  his  purpose,  Calhoun's  waning  energies  were  accelerated. 
He  answered  to  roll-call  on  the  eighth,  and  on  the  tenth  wrote  Cleinson 
that  his  health  had  so  much  improved  that  he  was  able  to  take  his  seat 
in  the  Senate  'and  a  part  in  the  discussions*'  Only  warm  weather  and  ex- 
ercise were  essential  to  a  'full  restoration*  of  his  strength.28  He  was  in  his 
seat  on  the  eleventh,  leaning  back  with  scorn  on  his  face  as  William  H. 
Seward  arose  to  proclaim  a  'higher  power7  than  the  Constitution,  which 
would  give  Congress  the  right  to  determine  whether  the  individual  states 
be  slave  or  free.  Calhoun  heard  him  out  in  silence,  remarking  afterward, 
'With  his  ideas,  he  is  not  fit  to  associate  with  gentlemen.'  * 

On  the  thirteenth  of  March,  Calhoun  walked  into  the  Senate  Chamber 
for  the  last  time.  His  eyes  were  calm,  though  vigilant,  his  body  erect,  his 
voice  'by  no  means  indicating  the  degree  of  physical  weakness  which  did, 
in  fact,  possess  him.' 3a  The  'fine  old  Celt  was  a  warrior  every  inch  of  him,' 
declared  the  correspondent  of  the  New  York  Tribune.  Quietly,  and  with- 
out ostentation,  he  took  his  seat,  but  he  'stirred  a  deep  feeling  among 
the  onlookers.'  His  condition  was  known  to  all,  and  there  was  something 
about  him  now  which  spoke  only  too  plainly  of  the  nearness  of  death.  To 
his  ardent  young  Southern  admirers  he  had  'the  heroism  of  a  martyr';  to 
Daniel  Webster  he  was  'a  Senator  of  Rome  when  Rome  survived.' 31 

During  the  afternoon  he  had  a  long  talk  'on  the  exciting  topics  of  the 
day'  with  a  young  Representative,  who  in  early  youth  had  drawn  inspira- 
tion from  Calhoun's  words  of  'kindness  and  encouragement,'  and  who  now 
found  'the  same  kind  feelings  »  .  .  still  manifested  towards  me  by  the 
veteran  statesman.' 82  Perhaps  it  was  during  this  momentary  diversion  that 
Henry  Foote  took  opportunity  to  open  his  attack  again.  The  weary  Caro- 
linian re-entered  the  Chamber  just  in  time  to  hear  the  word  'disunionist' 
flung  at  him. 

'Disunionist?  Did  he  call  me  that?5  he  demanded  bitterly. 

Ashamed,  Foote  attempted  explanation.  But  Calhoun's  blood  was  up, 
and  although  in  evident  physical  pain,  he  threw  himself  into  the  debate, 
taking  on  antagonist  after  antagonist.  His  voice  was  no  longer  'clear  as  a 
trumpet';  it  was  'quivering  from  weakness  and  husky  with  emotion,'  but 


502  JOHN    C.    CALHOUN 

his  unconquerable  will-power  remained  unbroken.33  He  was  summoning  all 
his  strength  for  replies.  The  reporters  looked  on  in  amazement.  'Even  in 
Ms  strongest  days/  they  knew,  'such  antagonism  would  have  taxed  his 
energies.' 8*  Now  he  was  at  the  point  of  collapse.  Foote,  whom  even  his 
friends  thought  was  'too  severe  on  Mr.  Calhoun/  begged  him  to  wait  until 
tomorrow.  Calhoun  gave  him  a  single  glance.  CI  do  not  know,'  he  said 
quietly,  'that  an  opportunity  will  then  be  afforded  me  of  saying  what  I 
desire  to  say.' 35  Instantly  the  Senate  hushed  into  silence. 

Calhoun  hesitated,  then  apologetically  announced:  'I  regret  very  much 
that  the  state  of  my  health  does  not  permit  me  to  enter  fully  into  the 
argument.  ...  I  shall  be  under  the  necessity  of  economizing  my  words 
as  well  as  my  strength.' 

He  turned  to  Foote.  'Can  the  Senate  believe/  he  demanded,  'that  the 
South  is  safe  while  one  portion  of  the  community  holds  entire  possession 
of  the  power  of  the  Government  to  wield  it  for  their  own  benefit?'  Why, 
the  disease  would  be  'fatal,  if  not  arrested.' 

Foote  repeated  his  charge  that  Calhoun  was  making  up  a  new  issue  with- 
out consulting  the  other  Senators. 

<I  never  consulted  with  any  Senator  in  my  life  when  about  to  make  a 
speech/  retorted  Calhoun  indignantly.  He  would  consult  when  there  was 
a  'new  issue/  The  Senator  from  Mississippi  was  'too  impatient.' 

'I  am  but  imitating  the  example  of  the  Senator/  was  Foote's  reply. 

Calhoun's  answer  was  tart.  'I  am  considerably  older  than  the  Senator, 
and  am  therefore  rather  more  entitled  to  give  advice.'  Sharply  he  rebuked 
Foote  for  his  association  with  men  whose  doctrines  meant  disunion. 

Foote  reminded  Calhoun  of  the  courteous  necessity  of  being  on  good 
terms  with  the  other  Senators. 

'Well,  I  am  not  on  good  terms  with  those  who  are  for  cutting  our  throats/ 
flashed  back  Calhoun.  He  would  not  even  speak  to  a  man  who  dared 
say  there  was  a  'power  higher  than  the  Constitution.  ...  I  will  say  good 
morning  ...  or  shake  hands  ...  if  he  thinks  ...  to  offer  his  hand/ 
but  that  was  all  he  would  have  to  do  'with  those  who  entertain  opinions  and 
doctrines  such  as  he  has  avowed.'  Calhoun  paused,  glanced  down  at  his 
thin  black  cloak,  and  retreated  toward  the  door.  He  flung  a  final  word. 
This  was  the  extent  of  his  intercourse  with  'those  who  I  think  are  en- 
dangering the  Union.' 86 

The  turmoil  had  utterly  exhausted  his  strength.  He  remained  in  bed, 
'gradually  sinking/  one  newspaper  reported,  and  unable  to  see  anyone. 
'He  is  not  only  sick,  but  dispirited/  declared  the  New  York  Herald,  but  he 
could  not  rest.  Day  by  day  opinion  was  crystallizing  on  the  Compromise 
measures,  and  the  rising  tide  of  excitement  penetrated  his  sick-chamber. 
Flooding  in  on  the  dying  man  was  abuse  such  as  that  in  Garrison's  Libera- 
tor, which  dubbed  him  the  master-tyrant,  'uppermost  among  the  damned.' 
If  he  were  sane,  which  Mr.  Garrison  doubted,  then  he  was  'an  adulterer, 


XXIX  WHEN  ROME  SURVIVED  503 

a  thief,  a  barbarian  .  .  ;  and  a  man-stealer/  privately,  'publicly,  and  at 
wholesale.5  Calhoun  would  have  wasted  little  self-pity  on  such  ravings,  but 
what  did  hurt  was  commentary  like  that  of  the  New  Orleans  Bee,  which 
announced  'the  public  sentiment  of  9/10ths  of  the  .  .  .  South  will  rebuke 
the  opinion  of  Mr.  Calhoun  and  stamp  it  as  calumny.'  Even  the  Charleston 
Mercury,  still  praising  Webster's  speech,  thought  'it  no  longer  ...  im- 
possible to  bring  this  sectional  contest  to  a  close.5  37  With  every  passing 
day  opinion  crystallized  more  rapidly.  Out  of  sixty  Southern  newspapers 
only  fifteen  would  even  agree  to  support  the  forthcoming  Convention. 

'Mr.  Calhoun  is  deserted  on  all  sides/  reported  the  Public  Ledger.** 
The  'sad,  ungrateful  experience'  of  these  last  days  wounded  Calhoun 
deeply.  He  'loved  his  country;  he  loved  the  Union5;  and  now  to  be  mis- 
understood was  almost  more  than  he  could  bear.  He  had  labored  to  forestall 
the  'irrepressible  conflict.5  But  he  knew  that  to  temporize  would  only  in- 
crease the  evil  which  he  sought  to  remove.  Most  of  all,  he  was  convinced 
that  the  future  was  dependent  upon  existing  causes.  His  consolation  was 
that  in  the  end,  he  might  be  appreciated. 

*You  are  a  very  unpopular  man,5  declared  a  visitor. 

Calhoun  eyed  him  calmly. 

'I  am,  among  politicians,  but  not  among  the  people,  and  you  will  know 
this  when  I  am  dead.5  S9 


He  had  spoken  truly.  North  and  South  alike,  an  entire  nation,  was  follow- 
ing the  reports  of  Calhoun5s  illness.  Not  even  their  hatred  of  his  policies 
could  diminish  their  admiration  of  the  man.  'That  which  will  interest5  our 
readers  most  'is  the  sad  news  concerning  Mr.  Calhoun's  health/  wrote  the 
New  York  Herald  correspondent  on  the  twenty-third.40  He  spoke  for 
virtually  the  entire  Washington  press  corps.  Scarcely  a  telegraphic  com- 
muniqu6  went  out  of  the  Capitol  that  March  without  word  as  to  Calhoun5s 
condition.  For  an  entire  generation  of  reporters  and  young  Representatives, 
there  was  no  memory  of  Washington  without  John  C.  Calhoun.  They 
could  not  face  the  thought  of  his  death.  Frantically  they  seized  on  the 
faintest  pretext  for  hope.  'The  republic  must  make  up  its  mind  to  lose  the 
great  South  Carolinian/  reported  the  Herald  on  March  21.  'He  will  live/ 
triumphed  the  same  paper  four  days  later.  'His  mighty  mind  has  actually 
gained  the  mastery  over  .  .  .  the  body.5  He  would  'live  long  enough  to 
use  up  those  political  donkeys  who  have  been  kicking  what  they  sup- 
posed to  be  a  dead  man.5  A  few  days  afterward,  the  columnist  was  com- 
pelled to  admit  that  the  Carolinian  had  suffered  a  relapse,  but  added,  'I 
cannot  make  up  my  mind  yet  that  he  is  going  to  die.5  tt 


504  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 


Calhoun  himself  cared  little.  'I  put  a  high  value  on  renown/  he  had  told 
Anna  Maria;  but  he  would  not  have  wished  to  live,  or  that  his  memory 
and  words  should  outlive  the  thing  he  loved.  What  tormented  him  now 
every  hour  was  the  conviction  that  he  had  failed,  not  only  to  save  the 
Union,  but  the  South.  All  would  be  lost.  The  reward/  he  had  said,  'is  in 
the  struggle  more  than  in  victory  ...  I  hold  the  duties  of  life  to  be 
greater  than  life  itself,  and  that  in  performing  them  manfully,  even  against 
hope,  our  labor  is  not  lost.  .  .  .'  But  was  it  not?  He  had  spent  a  lifetime 
trying  to  effect  by  example  what  he  could  not  do  through  principle;  he 
had  told  the  world  what  the  South  was  and  the  North,  and  how  the  North 
was  trying  to  destroy  the  South,  'blindly,  perhaps,  but  still  actually.' 42 
He  had  united  the  South  in  momentary  realization  of  its  danger,  but  had 
lacked  the  strength,  physical  and  political,  to  rally  the  dissident  forces  for 
a  stand. 

He  had  stressed  the  futility  of  compromise  because  his  hopes  still  lay 
in  the  June  Convention  and  his  own  domination  of  it.  Now  he  knew  that 
even  the  Convention  would  be  useless.  Webster's  overtures  had  divided  the 
South,  and  the  great  question  must  be  settled  now,  while  he  still  lived, 
if  at  alL  But  he  knew  it  would  not  be  settled.  The  Compromise  would  be 
accepted,  and  the  question  'patched  up  for  the  present,  to  brake  out  again 
in  a  few  years/  ^  Calhoun  knew  his  South  even  when  it  had  gone  beyond 
him.  When  the  Compromise  was  overruled,  when  the  Congress  of  the 
future  refused  to  be  bound  by  the  acts  of  the  past,  then  at  last  would  this 
young  'new'  South  snap  its  bonds — and  then  it  would  be  too  late!  Seces- 
sion was  practicable  only  while  the  South  had  had  strength  to  make  good 
the  threat  and  to  stand  alone — and  now  was  the  last  chance.  Only  now 
had  the  South  strength  to  compel  the  constitutional  guarantees  that  could 
insure  her  safety  in  the  Union.  These  young  men,  dreaming  of  a  rich  slave 
empire  stretching  on  into  Cuba  and  Mexico,  could  they  not  see  that  time 
and  destiny  were  not  their  friends?  Drunk  on  cotton,  they  looked  at  their 
acres,  not  at  the  trade  statistics;  lost  in  their  dreams  of  future  grandeur, 
they  failed  to  gauge  the  present  growth  of  the  North.  They  did  not  hear 
the  humming  roar  of  machines,  the  whisper  on  the  wind  that  an  outraged 
public  opinion  would  never  see  another  foot  of  slave  territory  annexed  to 
free  soil;  or  a  great  slave  republic  share  the  continent.  They  would  hear 
and  see  only  when  the  temple  of  the  Union  crashed,  and  like  Samson,  they 
were  buried  in  the  ruins. 


XXIX  WHEN  ROME  SURVIVED  505 


'What  do  you  see  in  the  future?'  Judge  Beverly  Tucker  asked  the  dying 
prophet. 

'Dark  forebodings,  and  I  should  die  happy  if  I  could  see  the  Union  pre- 
served/ was  Calhoun's  reply.  But  he  did  not  see  it.  'The  Union  is  doomed 
to  dissolution  .  .  .  within  twelve  years/  he  told  Mason.  'The  probability 
is,  that  it  will  explode  in  a  presidential  election.'  **  It  was  a  terrible  thing. 
The  dissolution  of  the  Union/  he  told  W.  H.  Parmalee,  'is  the  heaviest 
blow  that  can  be  struck  at  civilization  and  representative  government.' 45 

He  utilized  his  last  energy  in  adding  the  final  touches  to  his  book,  that 
strange  summary  of  his  entire  life's  experience  and  thought  This,  heralded 
as  'the  greatest  effort  of  his  mind/  he  would  leave  behind  him,  as  if  even 
from  his  grave  to  refute  the  charges  of  those  who  libeled  him  as  traitor 
and  disunionist;  as  if  to  prove  that  even  in  his  last  hours  his  weary  mind 
was  still  searching  for  a  way  to  reconcile  irreconcilables;  to  achieve  an 
impossibility.46 


8 

He  could  not  stand  the  exertion.  On  March  17,  the  New  York  Herald  re- 
ported his  hours  'numbered.'  He  could  sit  up  in  bed  and  argue  fiercely,  but 
ten  minutes  of  such  exertion  would  prostrate  him  for  hours.  Anxiously  his 
son  John  hovered  over  him.  A  doctor,  he  knew  that  his  father  could  not 
live  long  in  the  'contaminated  atmosphere'  of  Washington.  Son  and  friends 
agreed  on  Lynchburg,  Virginia,  with  its  rural  quiet  and  clean  mountain 
air.  It  was  decided  to  move  him  the  next  Wednesday  if  he  survived  'till 
that  time.' 47 

All  but  his  closest  friends  were  now  barred  from  the  sick-room.  He  was 
forbidden  to  discuss  political  questions,  but  insisted  on  talking  about 
slavery,  and  even  when  so  weak  that  the  power  of  speech  had  almost  left 
him,  his  brain  worked  on. 

Exhausted  from  such  strain,  his  nerves  finally  gave  way,  and  to  a  friend 
who  seized  a  brief  interview  he  seemed  'almost  demented.'  His  mind  was 
racked  with  the  problems  of  disunion.  If  Virginia  seceded,  where  would 
the  District  of  Columbia  go?  Could  it  be  transferred  to  Maryland  and 
Maryland  turned  over  to  the  North?  Fragments  of  this  interview  seeped 
into  the  Washington  rumor-pool,  and  a  scoffer  declared  that  Calhoun  was 
dying  in  giving  birth  to  the  Southern  Confederacy.48 


506  J°HN   c-   CALHOUN 


Early  in  the  week  he  was  better.  His  fever  left  him;  his  appetite  improved. 
He  was  keenly  interested  in  the  approaching  trip  to  Lynchburg,  and  was 
already  making  plans  for  his  recovery  and  return  to  the  Senate.  On  Wednes- 
day he  sat  up,  and  in  handwriting  surprisingly  firm  addressed  a  note  to 
his  colleague,  Butler,  possibly  the  last  letter  he  ever  wrote.  'I  suppose  the 
debate  etc.  on  Mr.  Clay's  resolutions  will  go  on  for  at  least  this  week 
before  a  vote  is  taken  on  them.  But  should  it  not,  as  I  am  desirous  of  being 
heard  in  the  debate,  I  must  request  the  favour  of  you  to  have  them  post- 
pone to  some  early  day  next  week,  say  Tuesday,  by  which  time  my 
strength,  I  think,  will  be  sufficiently  restored  to  enable  me  to  speak.'49 
To  speak  once  more,  to  lead  one  more  fight,  was  the  single  purpose  that 
kept  him  alive.  He  had  no  real  illusions  as  to  his  recovery.  But  he  did 
hope  that  by  force  of  will  he  could  hold  off  the  end  until  he  had  made  one 
last  plea.  <He  will  spare  no  efforts  to  preserve  the  South  if  he  cannot  pre- 
serve the  Union,'  declared  the  North  Carolina  Standard.  On  the  twenty- 
third,  the  Philadelphia  Ledger  reported  'his  mind  ...  as  active  as  ever 
...  he  is  at  this  moment  engaged  in  dictating  another  speech.'  Already 
Washington  rumor  had  decided  what  he  was  going  to  say.  'Firmly  and  .  .  . 
honestly  persuaded  that  the  Union  ought  to  be  dissolved,'  declared  More- 
head  to  Crittenden,  Calhoun  was  preparing  'every  strong  argument,' 
showing  that  'the  only  salvation  of  the  South  is  by  disunion.' 50  But  he 
was  writing  no  speech,  although  he  did  dictate  a  few  resolutions  to  his 
secretary.  Loose  in  structure,  repetitious  both  of  themselves  and  of  what 
had  gone  before,  they  contained  no  new  insights  and  no  solution  of  the 
terrible  problem. 


10 

On  March  27,  the  snow  was  falling  in  Washington.  It  was  spring  at  Fort 
Hill,  and  lying  back  against  his  pillows,  eyes  resting  on  the  white  monotony 
outside,  Calhoun  could  see  it  all:  the  fountains  of  yellow  forsythia  on 
either  side  of  the  driveway,  the  cedar  boughs  swaying  in  the  wind,  the 
gentle  slope  of  the  roof  and  the  cool  white  columns.  Almost  he  could  hear 
the  jingle  of  bridle  reins  and  the  thud  of  hooves  on  the  drive,  Floride's 
shears  as  she  knelt  over  her  rosebushes,  or  Anna  Maria's  voice,  hushed 
against  the  sounds  of  a  spring  evening.  A  statesman  was  dying,  Washing- 
ton said,  but  a  man  was  dying,  too. 

Characteristically,  on  what  he  felt  the  most,  he  would  have  said  the  least. 
He  knew  that  his  life  would  be  written  down  as  tragedy.  Yet  he  had  not 


XXIX  WHEN  ROME   SURVIVED  S07 

been  'an  unhappy  man.'  He  had  loved  life;  he  had  'battled  with  its  small 
joys  and  cares';  he  had  known  much  sorrow;  but  there  were  moments 
when  he  had  felt  shafts  of  pleasure,  keen  as  pain.  Lying  prostrate  now, 
feeling  his  strength  flowing  from  him,  he  had  time  to  look  inward  and 
remember.  Faces,  long  vanished,  haunted  his  memory:  Tapping  Reeve 
with  his  hand  on  his  back,  dreaming  down  a  country  road  in  Litchfield; 
Jefferson  in  the  hall  of  Monticello;  shriveled  'Jemmy'  Madison  and 
fatherly  James  Monroe;  Randolph  of  Roanoke,  with  his  whirling  forefinger 
and  glittering  eye.  Faces  of  friends  welled  up  in  his  memory,  friends  loved 
with  an  intensity  a  man  could  not  give  in  later  life:  Jimmy  MacBride 
under  the  elms  of  Yale  and  pale  William  Lowndes  and  all  those  ardent 
and  eager  young  Carolinians  of  the  twenties  who  had  rallied  to  his 
standard  with  selfless,  unswerving  devotion. 

He  had  found  happiness  in  his  children  and  his  children's  children.  He 
had  lived  a  quiet  life  and  a  very  simple  one;  yet  from  that  very  simplicity 
he  had  drawn  a  contentment  and  a  strength  that  stood  by  him  always. 
Whatever  he  had  done,  he  had  done  with  his  whole  heart.  He  had  lived 
as  intensely  as  he  had  felt  and  thought,  and  in  his  way  of  life  had  found 
the  fountain-spring  of  all  his  thinking  and  believing.  And  there  was  much 
to  think  about  and  remember  in  those  quiet  hours  with  the  wet  snow  clot- 
ting against  the  window-panes;  the  worn  red  hills  of  the  South  and  the 
mountains  hazed  in  'a  powder  that  was  blue,'  the  black  walls  of  pine,  the 
scent  of  mimosa  and  of  pennyroyal,  the  white-starred  shimmer  of  dog- 
wood in  a  Southern  April  and  the  smile  of  a  girl  of  sixteen  with  black  hair 
and  dancing  eyes,  a  girl  that  he  had  called  Floride — all  that  he  had  loved 
and  would  never  see  again. 

He  knew  that  he  was  going  to  die.  He  was  not  afraid.  He  had  long  known 
how  tenuous  was  his  hold  upon  existence,  and  it  was  this  very  knowledge 
which  had  driven  him  on.  As  early  as  ten  years  before,  despite  his  later 
digressions,  he  had  told  his  brother-in-law  James  that  he  felt  himself  too 
old  to  do  justice  to  the  Presidency;  and  from  that  day  through  his  private 
letters  like  a  theme  ran  the  words,  'My  time  must  soon  be  through.' 61 

He  had  known  when  he  kissed  Floride  at  Fort  Hill  in  November,  when 
he  had  looked  back  on  all  that  he  loved,  that  he  would  never  come  home 
again.  To  a  friend  he  had  confided  that  he  knew  'death  was  near,  much 
nearer  than  he  was  willing  to  have  his  family  know,7  and  added  that  he 
wished  to  give  all  the  time  he  could  spare  from  public  duty  to  'preparation 
for  death.' * 52 

'Sternly  and  positively'  he  had  forbidden  that  his  family  should  know 

*  Preparation  for  death,  with  Calhoun,  apparently  meant  to  'make  Ms  peace  with 
God.'  So  far  as  practical  affairs  went,  he  died,  leaving  no  will.  The  mortgage  on  Fort 
Hill  was  paid  off  with  the  ten-thousand  dollars  raised  by  Charleston  admirers  tp 
buy  Calhoun  a  yacht  for  a  sea-voyage  'to  restore  his  health.' 


508  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

of  his  condition.  He  would  not  want  Florida,  he  said  sharply,  'put  to  any 
inconvenience.' 5S  He  loved  his  family  devotedly,  but  there  was  no  question 
where  his  duty  lay.  To  have  them  at  his  side,  with  all  their  sympathy,  their 
fears  for  his  safety,  would  'unnerve  him'  entirely,  perhaps  to  a  point  where 
he  could  not  go  on.  He  could  not  let  himself  be  torn  with  emotion.  As  he 
said,  'he  could  not  bear  to  see  their  grief.' 54 

Until  the  last  week,  although  burning  with  fever  and  worn  out  with  a 
cough  that  tore  at  him  night  and  day,  he  continued  to  write  calm,  hopeful 
letters  to  Anna  Maria  and  Clemson,  assuring  them  that  his  health  was  im- 
proving. As  they  could  not  come  to  him,  why  should  they  worry  about 
him?  Almost  to  the  end  his  resolution  held;  then  the  human  ties  were  too 
strong.  On  March  23,  the  press  reported  that  he  had  at  last  'consented  to 
send  for  his  family.' 55 


11 

News  that  the  great  Carolinian  was  on  his  deathbed  had  sent  the  young 
Senate  chaplain,  C.  M.  Butler,  aflame  with  evangelical  zeal,  hurrying  to 
Hill's  boarding  house  to  bring  this  restless  soul  before  God.  Through  a 
half-open  doorway  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  sick  man,  pale,  emaciated, 
his  head  propped  by  pillows  and  his  eyes  piercing  and  restless  as  ever.  Cal- 
houn  would  not  see  him.  He  was  obdurate,  almost  angry.  'I  won't  be  told 
what  to  think! '  he  exclaimed.  Religion  was  a  'subject  I've  thought  about  all 
my  life/ 

Proud,  solitary,  independent  of  any  intellect  but  his  own,  Calhoun  re- 
fused even  spiritual  assistance  in  these  last  days.  His  religious  pilgrimage 
had  been  a  strange  one.  Always  devout,  yet  never  'professing'  Christianity, 
his  life  had  been  a  search  for  the  faith  which  would  fill  the  needs  of  his 
soul  and  yet  satisfy  the  demands  of  his  reason.66  Reacting  against  the  stern 
Presbyterianism  of  his  youth,  caught  midway  between  the  Calvinism  of  the 
up-country  and  the  deism  of  the  intellectual  Jeffersonian  groups,  he  had 
drifted  into  attendance  at  his  wife's  Episcopal  church,  of  which  it  was 
said  in  Carolina  that  this  was  'the  only  way  to  Heaven  for  a  gentleman.' 

His  conflicts  and  questionings  had  made  him  an  interesting  study  to 
pastors  who  watched  his  thoughtful  face  during  services.  Even  his  friends 
had  no  idea  where  he  stood.  Some  believed  him  a  deist,  others  a  Sweden- 
borgian.  Furthermore,  he  gave  money  to  build  the  Unitarian  church  in 
Washington  and  'on  the  first  roll  of  this  Washington  parish'  can  be  found 
his  name.  'Unitarianism,'  he  announced  with  characteristic  dogmatism,  'is 
the  only  true  faith  and  will  ultimately  prevail  over  the  world.' 5T  Yet  when 
Rhett,  concerned  over  his  spiritual  welfare,  urged  him  to  'seek  God  in 
Christ,'  Calhoun  was  silent  'to  an  appeal  which  would  have  meant  much  to 
him  in  earlier  years.' w 


XXIX  WHEN  ROME  SURVIVED  509 

Now,  with  his  days  drawing  to  a  close,  the  stern  old  Calvinistic  doc- 
trines of  his  youth  once  more  reasserted  their  power.  He  was  stirred  by  the 
revival  of  Presbyterianism  through  the  Southern  states,  and  to  those  who 
knew  him  best  it  seemed  that  his  doubts  had  at  last  been  resolved.  Dr. 
Venable  questioned  him  about  the  time  and  manner  in  which  best  to  meet 
death.  And  he  answered,  with  the  old-time  faith  of  his  boyhood:  'I  have 
little  concern  about  either;  I  desire  to  die  in  the  discharge  of  my  duty;  I 
have  an  unshaken  reliance  upon  the  providence  of  God.5  59 


12 

By  Saturday,  March  30,  he  was  much  weaker  and  very  restless.  He  sat  up 
for  a  couple  of  hours,  and  toward  evening  stimulants  so  revived  him  that 
he  discussed  slavery  with  fervent  interest.  But  late  at  night,  when  ap- 
parently at  rest,  he  said  to  Scoville:  'Read  very  low  some  of  the  papers 
which  I  said  I  wished  in  the  morning,  as  I  am  very  feeble/  Obediently 
the  clerk  gathered  some  of  the  last  pages  of  manuscript  upon  which  Cal- 
houn  had  been  working  and  began  to  read  aloud,  but  soon  made  a  pretext 
to  stop.  'Very  well,  you  can  read  me  the  rest  tomorrow/  Calhoun  said. 

He  lay  quietly  for  a  time,  but  at  twelve-thirty  his  heavy  breathing 
alarmed  his  son.  He  could  not  sleep;  his  pulse  was  faint,  but  he  refused 
any  stimulants.  'You  had  better  get  some  sleep/  he  told  his  son.  The  young 
man  lay  down,  but  an  hour  later  was  roused  by  his  father's  faintly  spoken: 
'John,  come  to  me.'  He  was  much  weaker  now  and  holding  out  his  arm 
said,  CI  have  no  pulse.'  No,  he  had  not  rested,  but  he  was  in  no  pain.  He 
wanted  his  son  to  lock  up  his  watch  and  the  manuscript.  This  done  he 
relaxed,  and  suddenly  remarked:  'I  have  never  had  such  facility  in  arrang- 
ing my  thoughts.' 

John  looked  at  him  with  concern.  'You're  overtasking  your  mind  with 
thinking,'  he  warned. 

'I  cannot  help  from  thinking  about  the  country,'  Calhoun  replied.60 


13 

What  was  he  thinking?  Not  about  himself  and  the  terrible  problem  that 
his  own  death  would  solve  for  him.  Not  even  his  beloved  South  was  fore- 
most in  his  thoughts  now.  Broken-hearted  by  his  own  forebodings,  he  was 
hoping  still  that  some  way,  somehow,  the  Union  might  be  saved  and  the 
South  within  it.  At  last  he  spoke.  clf  I  had  my  health  and  my  strength  to 
give  one  hour  in  the  Senate,  I  could  do  more  for  my  country  than  at  any 
previous  time  in  my  life.' 61 

'For  my  country.'  What  new  thought  had  come  to  him?  Had  he  devised 


510  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

some  plan  that  he  believed  might  yet  hold  back  the  forces  of  history, 
destiny,  and  the  inevitable?  Few  historians  have  thought  so.  With  the 
sole  exception  of  the  hint  in  his  letter  to  Butler,  there  is  nothing  in  his  last 
writings  more  than  the  desire  and  the  will  for  some  unfound  solution. 
Whatever  his  secret,  it  died  with  him.  One  word  yet  he  might  have  spoken, 
but  this  even  dying  despair  'could  not  wring  from  his  lips/ 62  'Disunion' 
was  the  word  he  did  not  speak. 

Minute  by  minute  time  ticked  away.  Venable  left  to  seize  a  few  hours' 
rest.  Richard  Cralle  arrived  to  take  up  the  watch. 

The  pitiful  bareness  of  the  sick-room,  the  lack  of  all  feminine  care  and 
attention  struck  the  young  clerk  to  the  heart.  From  the  mantelpiece  the 
'  sickly  glow'  of  a  single  tallow  candle  outlined  wardrobe  and  bed,  flickered 
dully  against  a  lump  of  cold  boiled  rice,  a  glass  of  water,  and  another 
of  dried  prunes,  'the  sole  death-bed  conveniences  of  John  C.  Calhoun.' 
There  was  a  party  at  Hill's  that  night,  and  disturbed  by  the  'loud  sounds 
of  revelry/  Calhoun  tossed  restlessly  about,  although  he  'uttered  no  mur- 
mur.' Occasionally  the  door  would  creak  open  and  a  merrymaker  would 
look  in  to  ask  if  he  still  lived. 

Throwing  himself  on  a  couch,  Crall£  fixed  his  eyes  on  Calhoun's  'still 
and  pallid  face/  The  majesty  of  the  long,  solitary  figure  on  the  bed, 
'prostrate,  almost  unable  to  move/  and  'struggling  for  every  breath/  was 
not  lost  upon  Cralle.  He  had  loved  Calhoun  as  a  father.  And  now,  if  only 
there  were  'a  thousand  little  comforts,  a  thousand  kind  and  soothing  atten- 
tions/ with  which  he  could  ease  his  last  hours! 

There  was  nothing  that  he  could  do.  And  where  were  all  the  others, 
Cralle  wondered.  What  feminine  hand  had  'smoothed  his  pillow'?  What 
'kind  sympathies'  had  offered  him  'delicacies  of  food'?  Where  was  'the 
friendship  ...  the  gratitude  for  a  long  life  of  privations,  charities,  and 
public  service'?  'They  entered  not  the  portals  of  that  desolate  chamber.' 63 

Not  even  the  aged  Negro  body-servant  was  there,  who  had  waited  upon 
Calhoun  since  his  young  War-Department  days.  For  thirty  years  they  had 
shared  each  other's  lives  and  moods;  they  had  been  young  and  grown  old 
together;  separated  only  by  room  and  by  color,  they  were  dying  together; 
and  the  slave  would  go  before  the  master. 

A  glimmer  of  light  edged  its  way  around  the  drawn  curtains.  It  was  five 
o'clock.  Calhoun  roused  himself.  John  stepped  to  the  bed  and  asked  him 
how  he  felt.  'I  am  perfectly  comfortable/  he  said. 

An  hour  passed.  Once  more  Calhoun  beckoned  his  son  to  his  side.  Grasp- 
ing the  boy's  hand,  Calhoun  looked  deep  into  his  eyes,  moved  his  lips,  but 
could  not  speak. 

The  door  opened.  A  few  friends  filed  past  the  bed  and  each  one  Calhoun 
took  by  the  hand.  As  Abraham  Venable  approached,  Calhoun  held  out  his 
wrist,  his  intent  gaze  searching  the  younger  man's  face. 

'You  are  pulseless,  sir,  and  must  take  some  wine/  Venable  said. 


XXDC  WHEN   ROME   SURVIVED  511 

Calhoun  motioned  to  the  wardrobe,  then  raised  his  head,  took  the  glass 
in  his  hand  and  drained  it.  Again  he  held  out  his  arm.  A  moment  later, 
Venable  gently  laid  it  down.  'The  wine,'  he  said,  'has  produced  no  effect.' 

Calhoun  gave  Venable  one  long  searching  look,  his  eyes  incredibly  clear 
and  keen.  He  understood.  Quietly  he  leaned  back,  adjusted  his  head  on  the 
pillow,  placed  his  hand  on  his  chest,  and  lay  waiting.  Bending  over  him, 
Venable  watched  the  face  of  the  dying  man.  It  was  'calm  .  .  .  composed/ 
unafraid.  Already  the  deep  lines  of  suffering  were  smoothing  themselves 
away,  but  the  dark  eyes,  their  luster  undimmed,  unflinchingly  met  his 
own.  'He  was  conscious  to  the  last  moment.' w 

The  room  was  very  still.  A  pale  blur  of  dawn  lay  on  the  floor.  Outside 
wet  boughs  creaked  in  the  March  wind.  The  early  morning  ring  of  hooves 
sounded  against  the  pavement.  Inside  was  only  the  sound  of  that  slow 
breathing — slower — slower — one  long  breath — and  then  silence.  It  was  a 
quarter  past  jeven  on  Sunday  morning,  and  in  Charleston  the  bells  of  Saint 
Philip's  and  Saint  Michael's  rang  out,  calling  the  people  to  worship.  A 
few  moments  later,  the  'magic  wires'  in  the  telegraph  office  began  to  dick, 
and  in  state  after  state  of  the  American  Union  the  letters  were  spelled  out: 
'Mr.  Calhoun  expired  at  fifteen  minutes  past  seven  this  morning  ...  to 
the  last,  his  eyes  retained  their  brightness.' w 


14 

'Universal  regret'  was  the  statement  of  the  New  York  Herald.  'Affliction 
and  sorrow  hang  like  clouds  over  the  federal  city,'  wrote  the  correspondent 
of  the  Philadelphia  Ledger.  Bitterly  opposed  to  Calhoun  personally,  he 
was  compelled  to  admit  that  the  old  Carolinian  was  'one  of  the  ablest 
men  this  country  has  produced.' w 

At  Yale  College,  ruddy-faced,  grizzled  Benjamin  Silliman,  'the  great 
Silliman'  now,  opened  his  diary.  Nearly  half  a  century  had  passed  since 
the  young  teacher  and  the  young  student  had  together  explored  the 
mysteries  of  the  'new'  science  in  a  classroom  on  Chapel  Street.  'John  C. 
Calhoun  died  this  morning  .  .  .'  wrote  Silliman,  'calm  and  in  perfect 
possession  of  his  reason.  Nothing  is  quoted  regarding  his  soul  or  his  pros- 
pects for  another  life.' e7 

In  Albany  Dr.  Alexander  Stephens,  he  who  as  a  gangling  boy  in  his 
teens  had  thrilled  to  Calhoun's  'young  eloquence/  watched  the  flag  over 
the  Capitol  of  the  state  of  New  York  fall  to  half-mast.  For  years,  Dr. 
Stephens  had  followed  the  career  of  his  old  fellow  student,  his  admiration 
mingled  with  concern.  For  he  had  a  physician's  understanding  of  Cal- 
houn's make-up,  physical  as  well  as  mental;  and  to  him  his  friend's  death 
was  plainly  'an  intellectual  death  ...  an  overworked  mind  dwelling 
too  long  on  one  ...  object,'  a  terrible  lesson  'to  intense  thinkers.'68 


512  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

And  far  off  in  Belgium,  Anna  Maria,  sensing  the  desolation  of  that 
lonely  bedchamber,  mourned  bitterly  that  she  could  not  have  had  the 
melancholy  satisfaction  of  soothing  her  father's  last  hours.  'Did  you 
know/  she  wondered,  'what  an  aching  void  your  death  would  cause  in 
your  daughter's  heart?' 69 

In  the  Senate,  on  Monday,  the  task  of  announcing  what  all  knew  fell 
to  tall,  white-haired  Alexander  Butler.  Each  Senator  had  his  own  concept 
of  Calhoun.  To  Butler  it  was  his  colleague  of  the  past  few  years,  ill,  and 
aware  that  he  could  live  for  only  a  short  while,  yet  'the  least  despondent 
man  I  ever  knew.3  He  had  met  death  with  complete  'realization  of  what 
was  passing,'  but  'with  his  usual  aversion  to  professions  .  .  .  said  nothing 
for  mere  effect  upon  the  world.' 70  His  last  hours  had  been  in  keeping 
with  his  entire  life. 

Henry  Clay  took  the  floor.  Memories  were  flooding  in  on  him — of  a 
youthful  friendship,  unstained  by  the  bitter  quarrels  of  later  years;  of 
the  young  floor  leader  in  that  first  War  Congress,  'a  star  bright  and  bril- 
liant'; of  Madison's  Secretary  of  War,  so  deeply  and  unashamedly  in 
love  with  his  young  wife;  of  the  fellow  orator,  with  his  flashing  eyes  and 
'torrent  of  mighty  rhetoric,  which  always  won  our  admiration  even  if  it 
did  not  bring  conviction  to  our  understandings.'  His  principles,  however 
they  might  have  differed  from  ours,  Clay  declared,  'will  descend  to  pos- 
terity under  the  sanction  of  a  great  name.  .  .  .  Mr.  Speaker,  he  is  gone. 
.  .  .  He  is  now  an  historical  character.' n 

Then  the  third  member  of  the  broken  triumvirate  arose.  Jefferson 
Davis  sat  nearby,  and  never  had  he  seen  'Mr.  Webster  so  agitated';  never 
had  he  heard  his  voice  so  falter,  'as  when  he  delivered  the  eulogy  on 
John  C.  Calhoun.' 72  For  Webster,  too,  those  early  days  of  the  War  Con- 
gress had  meaning.  'We  were  both  young  men/  he  said  reminiscently. 
He  touched  on  Calhoun's  'originality  and  vigor  of  thought/  his  'superior 
dignity/  his  courtesy  to  others.  'Whatever  his  aspirations/  Webster  de- 
clared, 'they  were  high,  honorable,  and  noble.  .  .  .  There  was  nothing 
groveling  or  low,  or  meanly  selfish  that  came  near  the  head  or  the 
heart  of  Mr.  Calhoun.' 7S 


IS 

The  funeral  services  were  on  Tuesday,  the  day  that  he  had  hoped  to  re- 
turn to  his  seat  once  more.  Instead,  he  lay  in  state  in  the  middle  aisle  of 
the  Chamber,  his  coffin  covered  with  a  black  velvet  pall,  light  slanting 
across  his  pale  features.  Outside,  spring  had  come;  it  was  a  warm  clear 
day.  The  Senate  Chamber  was  crowded.  In  the  gallery  sat  'several  ladies 
of  Mr.  Calhoun's  family  ...  in  deep  mourning.'  Floride  had  arrived, 
but  too  late. 


XXIX  WHEN   ROME    SURVIVED  513 

The  chaplain  pronounced  the  short,  formal,  funeral  service.  Near  the 
coffin  sat  the  bearers,  Webster,  Mangum,  Cass,  King,  Berrien,  and  Henry 
Clay,  his  face  working  with  ' visible  emotion.'  Slowly  Daniel  Webster 
arose  to  speak  the  few  words  that  his  feelings  allowed  him.  Involuntarily 
he  glanced  at  Benton.  Benton  had  refused  to  speak,  and  sat  now,  his 
back  turned,  twirling  his  spectacles  in  boredom.  At  the  close  of  the 
service,  the  bitter  old  Missourian  spoke:  'He  is  not  dead,  sir;  he  is  not 
dead.  There  may  be  no  vitality  in  his  body.  But  there's  plenty  in  his 
doctrines.' 74 


16 

At  the  Washington  docks,  the  crowd  was  waiting.  It  was  April  22,  a  still 
warm  day.  Before  them  loomed  the  steamer  Baltimore,  cabins,  masts,  and 
smokestack  all  draped  in  black.  From  behind  moved  the  hearse,  its  twelve 
black  horses  led  by  Negro  mutes.  There  were  the  dim  notes  of  martial 
music;  there  was  the  tolling  of  the  church  bells.  Silently  the  pageant 
moved  forward;  the  waiting  hundreds  saw  Daniel  Webster,  his  dark 
face  shadowed  with  grief,  and  Jefferson  Davis,  his  head  averted.  Silently 
the  crowd  watched,  as  the  body  of  a  young  West  Point  cadet,  a  Con- 
gressman's son  from  Alabama,  was  hoisted  to  the  deck.  Beside  it  was 
laid  a  second  coffin,  'partially  shaped'  to  the  long  body  of  Calhoun.75 

The  church  bells  were  tolling  as  the  Baltimore  moved  slowly  out  onto 
the  waters  of  the  Potomac.  They  were  tolling  across  the  river  at  Alexan- 
dria, where  the  flags  hung  at  half-mast,  and  at  Washington's  Mount  Ver- 
non,  and  at  Fredericksburg,  where  the  minute  guns  boomed. 

They  were  tolling  through  the  late  afternoon  twilight  in  Richmond, 
as  an  'immense  throng  stood  in  utter  silence'  before  a  row  of  carriages 
and  footmen  in  black  livery  with  bands  of  white  cambric  about  their  hats 
and  sleeves.  A  hearse,  drawn  by  four  black  horses,  and  followed  by  the 
long  parade  of  family  carriages,  moved  through  the  empty  streets  to 
Jefferson's  Capitol.  There  the  next  morning  the  Governor  released  the 
'Guard  of  Honor/  and  delivered  the  body  of  Calhoun  to  'the  committee 
of  25.'  'Virginia  will  mingle  her  tears  with  those  of  Carolina,'  he  said. 
The  'spontaneous  outpouring  of  our  population  yesterday7  was  only  'a 
slight  manifestation  of  the  exalted  admiration'  which  the  state  felt  for 
the  'genius'  who  had  departed.  'I  knew  him  well,  and  esteemed  him  for 
those  virtues  which  won  the  heart  of  the  nation.' 7e 

The  bells  were  tolling  in  Petersburg,  where  business  was  stilled,  and 
from  black-draped  houses  men  and  women  filed  into  Saint  Paul's  Church 
for  a  short  memorial  service.  They  were  tolling  that  afternoon  in  Wilming- 
ton, as  the  flags  drooped  at  half-mast  and  the  minute  guns  boomed,  and 
a  double  line  of  citizens  stood  uncovered  in  the  hot  sun,  watching  a  white 


S14  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 

horse  draw  through  the  narrow  streets  all  that  remained  of  Monroe's 
Secretary  of  War,  who  had  last  visited  them,  ardent  and  young,  a  quarter  of 
a  century  before. 

South  of  Wilmington  the  Baltimore  moved  along  a  tangled  back-drop 
of  pine  and  swamp,  but  as  the  smoke  lifted  gray  banners  of  approach 
against  the  sky,  bells  sounded  from  the  tiny  hamlets  along  the  water's 
edge,  and  cannon  boomed.  At  one  isolated  farm  a  single  old  man  stood 
waiting.  His  head  was  bare.  His  hands  rested  on  a  small  pine  tree  which 
he  had  draped  in  black.  Behind  him  stood  two  Negroes,  their  heads  un- 
covered and  bent.77 

From  the  deck  of  the  Baltimore,  Thursday  morning,  Abraham  Venable 
gazed  over  the  harbor  of  Charleston  to  the  misted  towers  and  walls  be- 
yond. It  was  like  a  city  of  the  dead.  There  was  not  the  stroke  of  a  ham- 
mer nor  the  sound  of  a  voice;  only  the  slow  booming  of  the  guns  and  the 
slow  solemnity  of  the  church  bells  broke  the  stillness.  To  Venable,  look- 
ing in  wonder,  this  proudest  city  in  America,  now  humbled  in  grief,  spoke 
a  language  that  went  to  his  heart.  Only  the  five  little  ships  in  the  harbor, 
moving  up  and  down,  their  colors  lowered  to  half-mast,  and  the  hearse 
and  Vast  multitude  of  mourners  .  .  .  bore  witness'  that  in  the  city  the 
pulse  of  life  still  beat.78  South  Carolina's  king  had  come  home. 

The  Baltimore  docked  at  noon.  A  Guard  of  Honor  in  full  mourning, 
with  white  scarfs  across  their  shoulders,  stepped  forward.  The  iron  casket 
was  lifted  and  placed  within  a  funeral  carriage,  'spread  over  with  a 
pall  of  black  velvet,  enflounced  in  silver  with  the  escutcheon  of  the  State 
of  South  Carolina  in  the  centre  and  four  corners.' 79 

The  muffled  drums  rolled.  The  bells  tolled.  Six  black  horses  drew  the 
catafalque  through  the  empty  streets.  Behind  moved  the  funeral  proces- 
sion— twelve  ex-Governors  and  Lieutenant-Governors,  the  military  escort, 
Calhoun's  wife  and  children,  the  neighbors  from  Pendleton,  the  last  few 
old  soldiers  of  the  Revolution. 

At  Citadel  Square,  Venable  saw  such  a  spectacle  as  he  had  never  seen 
before  and  would  never  see  again.  Mourning  thousands  stood  in  silence, 
their  heads  uncovered,  bowed  before  the  funeral  carriage  of  'their  pride 
and  their  hope,  laid  low.'80  Over  them  hung  the  'hush  of  death';  behind 
them  brooded  the  front  and  battlements  of  the  Citadel,  all  draped  in  black. 
Not  a  sound  could  be  heard  but  the  tramping  of  the  horses,  the  tolling 
of  the  bells,  the  relentless  rumble  of  the  drums. 

From  the  Square  the  procession  moved  through  the  city  gates  down 
Boundary  Street  (now  Calhoun  Street),  overhead  the  draped  'escutcheon 
of  the  State,'  and  beneath  it  the  words,  'Carolina  Mourns.'81  Even  the 
palmetto  trees  were  swathed  in  black;  every  store  and  building  and 
church  was  hung  with  mourning;  every  door  and  every  window  closed. 
From  the  Citadel  to  the  City  Hall  not  a  voice,  not  a  sound,  broke  the 
stillness.  Not  a  curtain  was  raised;  not  a  face  looked  out.  All  were  in 
the  procession  outside,  or  mourning  silently  within. 


XXDC  WHEN   ROME   SURVIVED  515 

The  procession  ended  at  City  Hall.  Within,  the  building  was  darkened 
and  draped,  with  palmettos  arched  over  the  entrance.  The  coffin  was 
placed  beneath  a  canopy,  supported  by  Corinthian  columns  and  sur- 
mounted by  three  pale  eagles,  holding  the  crepe  in  their  beaks.  Calhoun's 
friends,  who  knew  his  'simple  tastes/ 82  had  been  pained  by  the  grandeur, 
had  feared  that  solemnity  would  be  lost  in  display.  But  the  genuine  out- 
pouring of  the  people's  grief  overshadowed  the  pomp  and  ritual  of  Vic- 
torian convention.  For  a  day  and  a  night  he  lay  in  state,  and  for  a  day 
and  a  night  thousands  passed  by.  Railroad  and  steamship  companies  had 
given  free  passage  to  all  mourners,  and  they  came  in  droves,  men  and 
women  and  children,  the  young  and  the  old,  the  Charleston  great  and  the 
hill-country  farmers,  shoulders  bowed  with  work  and  boots  red  with 
clay;  the  white  and  the  black,  all  moving  in  a  single  unbroken  line.  Only 
the  women  lingered,  and  upon  the  coffin  they  tossed  their  cloth-of-gold 
roses  until  the  entire  bier  and  all  the  space  around  it  was  covered  with  a 
carpet  of  flowers.88 


17 

And  it  was  the  man  as  much  as  the  statesman  that  his  state  and  the  whole 
South  loved.  It  was  the  intimate  human  details  of  his  personality  that 
Carolinians  a  hundred  years  after  his  death  were  talking  about  and  re- 
membering. They  would  whisper  about  his  youthful  romances,  shake 
their  heads  over  his  wife's  tantrums,  sadly  admit  that  he  and  she  were 
'not  congenial.7  They  would  argue  about  his  health  and  his  bushy  hair, 
wondering  still  if  he  could  change  the  color  of  his  eyes  in  moments  of 
excitement  or  anger.  In  the  drawing  rooms  of  Charleston,  beside  the  paint- 
ings of  Sully  and  of  Lawrence,  it  was  the  portraits  of  Calhoun,  no  matter 
how  damaged  or  crude,  which  hung  in  the  place  of  honor,  and  to  which 
men  and  women  pointed  with  pride.  He  had  become  a  sort  of  great-grand- 
father to  the  entire  state,  known  as  well  and  affectionately  to  those  who 
had  never  seen  him  as  if  he  had  died  only  yesterday — or  had  never  died 
at  all.  In  no  other  state,  not  even  in  Jefferson's  Virginia,  is  there  that 
strange  bond  between  the  dead  and  the  living. 

They  'felt  things'  about  Calhoun  in  South  Carolina.  They  feel  them 
still.  Those  in  his  own  time  were  grateful  that  'we  have  lived  in  his  age, 
that  we  have  seen  him  and  heard  him  and  known  him.  We  shall  delight 
to  speak  of  him  to  those  who  are  rising  to  fill  our  places.'  But  why  did 
they  love  him  so?  Most  of  them  had  never  known  Calhoun.  Few  had 
seen  him.  Yet  they  mourned  his  passing  'with  a  sense  of  loss  almost  per- 
sonal.' 

If  strangers  paid  tribute  to  his  intellectual  powers,  Carolinians  extolled 
his  moral  worth.  They  looked  up  to  him  because  he  was  'a  good  man, 
modest  and  unassuming,'  his  'greatness  and  goodness  allied.'84  He  was 


516  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

not  a  typical  Southerner;  there  were  few  in  any  age  like  him.  Yet  in  his 
way  of  living  and  philosophy  of  life  he  had  summed  up  'a  whole  people 
and  a  whole  civilization.7 

They  loved  him  because  he  was  one  of  them.  His  people  and  theirs  had 
traveled  in  the  same  covered  wagons,  rolling  down  from  Virginia.  Like 
them  he  had  drawn  his  strength  from  the  red  earth  and  the  rock-bound 
hills;  like  them,  behind  all  his  talk  of  tariffs  and  slavery  and  states'  rights, 
his  every  act  and  his  deepest  love  went  back  to  the  land  and  the  life  on 
the  land.  Few  Southerners  had  understood  nullification;  all  Southerners 
could  understand  the  reasons  behind  nullification.  He  was  a  man  who 
had  known  and  loved  one  way  of  life,  and  had  given  all  his  strength  in  a 
fight  for  the  kind  of  America  in  which  that  way  of  life  could  endure. 

South  Carolina  had  loved  Calhoun  even  when  he  had  flouted  and  defied 
her.  He  had  been  a  statesman,  not  a  politician;  his  task  had  been  to 
lead,  not  to  follow,  public  opinion;  to  sacrifice  himself  'for  the  people, 
not  to  them.'  Of  humble  origin,  he  had  held  aloft  the  aristocratic  ideal; 
not  the  aristocracy  of  accident  of  birth,  or  of  wealth;  but  the  aristocracy 
of  brains  and  strength  and  character,  which  few  could  reach,  but  toward 
which  all  could  aspire. 

Like  Jefferson,  he  believed  that  man's  ends  lay  in  his  political  destiny; 
that  the  goal  of  democracy  was  not  equality,  but  equity;  not  to  press 
men  down  into  a  common  mold,  but  to  give  them  release  to  develop  to 
the  fullest  limits  of  their  natures. 

For  the  deference  he  exacted,  the  people,  in  their  turn,  exacted  a  states- 
man's conduct  from  him.  He  was  above  their  bickerings  and  battles.  When 
he  descended  to  the  politician's  level  and  took  the  stump  to  defeat  a 
Congressman  who  had  opposed  him,  it  was  he,  in  the  person  of  his  candi- 
date, who  was  soundly  defeated.  He  was  not  expected  to  interfere  in  the 
state's  internal  concerns;  and  so  the  public  firmly  and  sternly  reminded 
him. 


18 

The  last  rites  of  all  were  simple.  No  ornate  funeral  carriage,  but  bare- 
headed young  men  carried  the  body  of  their  great  king  to  the  grave  in 
the  west  cemetery  of  Saint  Philip's  churchyard.  There  in  the  shadow  of 
the  brick  walls,  crumbling  under  their  streamers  of  ivy,  the  mighty  dead 
of  South  Carolina  slept;  proud  names,  Charleston  names,  with  no  up- 
country  outlander  among  them.  It  was  not  the  resting  place  Calhoun 
would  have  chosen.  He  would  have  preferred  the  wind-swept  hills.  But 
the  citizens  of  Charleston  had  appealed  to  his  family  that  'the  remains 
of  him  we  loved  so  well  be  permitted  to  repose  among  us,'  there  in  the 
Westminster  Abbey  of  the  South.  'Nowhere  on  earth,'  wrote  Jonathan 


XXIX  WHEN   ROME    SURVIVED  517 

Daniels,  seventy-seven  years  later,  'is  there  a  sweeter  or  nobler  place  for 
sleep.' 85 

He  was  the  South  incarnate.  He  never  thrilled  to  the  notes  of  'Dixie/ 
or  watched  the  Stars  and  Bars  unfurl  against  the  Southern  sky.  The  flag 
of  the  American  Union  hung  above  his  grave.  Yet  it  was  his  spirit  that 
fired  the  Southern  cause.  For  it  was  the  Southern  way  of  life,  not  states' 
rights,  or  slavery,  or  the  tariff,  for  which  the  South  fought — and  Calhoun 
had  been  its  greatest  defender.  The  South  would  have  fought  without  him; 
but  the  'lost  cause'  for  which  it  battled  was  his.  And  if  the  shade  of  old 
John  Brown  tramped  with  the  armies  of  Grant  and  Sheridan,  marching 
with  the  ragged  followers  of  Lee  and  Stonewall  Jackson  was  the  gaunt,  fiery- 
eyed  ghost  of  John  Calhoun. 

On  the  square  of  white  marble  in  Saint  Philip's  churchyard  was  cut  the 
one  word,  CALHOUN.  It  was  enough;  he  would  not  have  asked  for 
more.  But  there  was  no  tribute  'of  which  he  would  have  been  more  proud' 
than  the  gibe  of  a  bitter  Yankee  soldier,  standing  in  triumph  in  Saint 
Philip's  churchyard  in  April,  1865,  with  the  bomb-shattered  ruins  of 
Charleston  around  him:  'The  whole  South  is  the  grave  of  Calhoun.' 86 


XXX 

Minority  Champion 


NEVER  WAS  SLEEP  more  troubled  than  Calhoun's  in  the  quiet  churchyard. 
For  months  after  his  burial,  the  men  and  women  of  Charleston  hovered 
about  the  tomb,  heaping  it  daily  with  fresh  wreaths  and  flowers.  It  be- 
came a  sort  of  shrine,  and  in  the  sixties  as  Sherman  marched  from  the 
mountains  to  the  sea,  a  company  of  soldiers  was  stationed  to  guard  it 
night  and  day.  Finally,  when  the  mutter  of  guns  sounded  around  Charles- 
ton and  shells  smashed  into  the  besieged  city,  the  sexton  of  Saint  Philip's, 
with  4  single  assistant,  dug  up  the  body  and  reburied  it  by  night  beneath 
the  church,  lest  the  victorious  troops  of  the  North  commit  desecration. 
And  there,  unknowing,  in  the  triumph  of  victory,  came  the  bitter  Yankee 
soldier  with  his  epitaph;  and  in  April,  1865,  William  Lloyd  Garrison  him- 
self, to  strike  his  hand  against  the  white  marble  and  proclaim:  'Down 
into  a  deeper  grave  than  this,  slavery  is  gone,  and  for  it  there  is  no 
resurrection.3  x 

As  late  as  1910,  Southern  die-hards  could  be  found  lingering  about  the 
tomb  of  Calhoun,  declaring  that  the  South  would  have  won  if  only  he 
could  have  been  its  leader,  and  even  the  old  Negroes  would  'tell  stories 
of  his  unparalleled  greatness.'  He  was  still  the  South's  uncrowned  king; 
yet  scarcely  twenty  years  afterward  'thousands'  of  Northern  visitors  yearly 
made  pilgrimages  to  his  tomb.2  Dead  nearly  three-quarters  of  a  century, 
the  Southern  leader  was  coming  into  his  own. 

'He  will  speak/  had  declared  an  unknown  eulogist,  'most  potently  from 
the  grave.'  Not  even  the  prophet  himself  had  uttered  prophecy  truer  than 
that.  Behind  him  when  he  died,  unfinished  but  blocked  out,  were  his  two 
books — A  Disquisition  on  Government  and  A  Discourse  on  the  Constitu- 
tion of  the  United  States — to  which  he  had  literally  given  his  last  days 
and  almost  his  last  hours.  Upon  them  his  claim  to  fame  is  assured.  For 
here,  stripped  of  the  day-to-day  issues  of  his  own  time,  is  the  essence  of 
his  entire  political  philosophy,  the  sum  of  all  his  living  and  thinking.  Here 
is  what  latter-day  critics  would  hail  as  perhaps  the  most  powerful  defense 
of  minority  rights  in  a  democracy  ever  written. 

It  was  a  somber  prophecy  for  later  times,  a  haunted  warning  for  his 
own.  Yet  in  his  own  day  it  was  neither  heeded  nor  understood.  The  South 


XXX  MINORITY   CHAMPION  519 

Carolina  Legislature  issued  the  work,  together  with  his  speeches,  in  a  de  luxe 
edition  which  was  placed  in  reverence  on  Southern  shelves,  but  how  wide  a 
reading  audience  those  six  abstract,  closely  written  volumes  obtained  dur- 
ing the  years  of  war  and  strife,  it  is  not  difficult  to  surmise.  As  for  the  vic- 
torious North,  it  had  no  desire  to  read  or  heed  the  warnings  of  the  van- 
quished. Yet,  as  has  been  observed,  when  a  man  like  Calhoun  puts  his  last 
breath  into  a  warning  for  his  people,  the  people  themselves  are  the  losers 
if  they  do  not  hear  what  he  has  to  say.3 


The  first  book  is  superior  to  the  second,  which  is  diffuse,  repetitive,  clearly 
showing  the  illness  of  its  author.  Yet  even  the  second  is  extraordinary.  It 
is  too  much  to  claim,  as  do  the  most  fervid  Southern  enthusiasts,  that 
these  books  rank  with  Aristotle's,  but  with  the  single  exception  of  the 
Federalist  Papers,  they  represent  America's  most  remarkable  contribution 
to  political  thought. 

In  the  Disquisition  Calhoun  outlined  what  he  conceived  to  be  the  prin- 
ciples of  government  in  general,  and  of  democratic  government  in  par- 
ticular. In  the  Discourse  he  illustrated  these  principles  by  means  of  the 
Constitution  and  the  American  federal  theory — and  here  is  where  the  dif- 
ficulties begin.  For  none  knew  better  than  Calhoun  how  vastly  America 
had  outgrown  the  federal  pattern;  and  that  the  interests,  once  repre- 
sented by  states  and  later  by  sections,  would  soon  be  scattered  across  the 
entire  country.  By  1850,  Calhoun  had  realized  that  although  politically 
states'  rights  were  a  safeguard,  economically  they  were  not  enough.  Von 
Hoist  points  out  how  in  the  end  Calhoun  repudiated  what  had  been  sup- 
posed to  be  his  entire  political  philosophy;  4  fifteen  years  after  his  passing, 
a  generation  of  Southern  young  men  would  die  in  the  name  of  states' 
rights,  mistakenly  supposing  that  they  were  dying  in  the  name  of  Calhoun.5 

For  passionate  as  was  Calhoun's  love  for  South  Carolina;  convinced 
as  he  was  that  the  state  was  the  unit  upon  which  America  was  built,  this 
organization  still,  to  Calhoun,  was  a  means  and  not  an  end.  He  was  fight- 
ing, not  for  the  original  American  pattern,  but  for  the  general  federal  theory ; 
but  this  not  even  his  most  devoted  admirers  could  understand.  And  not  the 
federal  theory  alone,  but  the  justice  which  the  federal  theory  was  devised 
to  maintain,  was  to  Calhoun  the  essence  of  America.  America  had  out- 
grown states'  rights — the  usurpations  of  majority  rule  proved  this — thus 
the  theory  must  be  reworked  upon  a  new  pattern. 

This  explains  the  confusion  that  distorts  the  second  volume  of  Cal- 
houn's mighty  work.  How  could  a  country,  which  had  embodied  its  theory 
in  a  pattern,  maintain  the  theory  without  the  pattern?  Yet  Calhoun's 
very  recognition  of  this  dilemma  is  the  measure  of  his  greatness  as  a 


520  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 

statesman.  It  was  not  the  Union  that  mattered  so  much  as  the  purpose 
behind  it.  Calhoun  was  not  doctrinaire;  his  aim  was  to  make  democracy 
work. 

The  purpose  of  his  book  was  threefold:  to  save  the  South,  to  save  the 
Union,  to  save  the  federal  principles  of  the  Union.  All,  he  knew,  were  in- 
dispensable, one  to  the  other.  He  knew  that  1850  was  the  last  chance  for 
the  South  and  West  to  rally  behind  a  constitutional  amendment  which 
he  thought  would  'protect  the  South  forever  against  economic  exploitation.' 
He  knew  that  ten  years  later  would  be  too  late.  Within  the  Union,  un- 
conquered,  the  South  could  form  a  barrier  against  the  final  triumph  of 
industrial  centralization  and  unchecked  majority  rule;  without,  all  would 
be  lost. 

Thus,  in  his  last  days,  with  haunted  vision  and  in  agony  of  spirit  Cal- 
houn had  thrust  against  the  forces  which  challenged  the  Union.  The  right 
to  secede,  as  a  last  resort,  hopeless  as  secession  might  be,  he  did  not  deny: 
'That  a  State,  as  a  party  to  the  constitutional  compact,  has  the  right  to 
secede  .  .  .  cannot  be  denied  by  anyone  who  regards  the  Constitution 
as  a  compact — if  a  power  should  be  inserted  by  the  amending  power, 
which  would  radically  change  the  character  of  the  system;  or  if  the 
former  should  fail  to  fulfill  the  ends  for  which  it  was  established.'*  Yet,- 
practically,  he  knew  that  the  South's  only  hope  was  in  the  Union. 


Calhoun  saw  the  country  politically  as  'a  democratic  Federal  republic, 
democratic  not  aristocratic,  federal  not  national  ...  of  states,  not  of 
individuals.1 7  He  saw  it  as  a  government,  not  of  the  numerical  majority, 
but  of  the  concurrent  majority — with  each  major  group  in  society  having 
a  voice  in  the  legislation  affecting  it,  as  in  the  legislation  affecting  the 
whole. 

Economically,  his  ideal  was  not  an  agrarian,  but  a  balanced,  economy. 
The  numerical  supremacy  of  factory  workers  over  farmers,  of  industrial- 
ists over  planters,  he  considered  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  rights  and 
powers  belonging  to  each  group.  The  one  was  not  the  slave  of  the  other; 
all  were  essential  to  the  maintenance  of  a  sound  and  healthy  economic 
system. 

For  Calhoun,  America  was  a  protest  against  the  European  spirit,  against 
an  aristocracy  of  birth,  against  the  artificial  aristocracy  of  accumulated 
wealth  'and  the  decadence  of  men.'  The  South,  although  conservative, 
static,  at  odds  with  the  dynamic  and  expanding  North,  he  saw  as  the  sym- 
bol of  this  protest.  Already  the  South  was  an  anachronism,  a  minority 
voice  against  the  majority  will,  but  still  the  last  barrier  against  the  rising, 
middle-class,  standardized  civilization  which  was  sweeping  the  world  in 
the  wake  of  the  Industrial  Revolution. 


XXX  MINORITY   CHAMPION  521 

Future  events  would  prove  to  many  how  terribly  right  he  had  been. 
A  century  later  Harold  Laski  would  find  an  America  committed  to  the 
evaluation  of  men  by  what  they  had  rather  than  what  they  were — to  the 
pursuit  of  wealth  rather  than  of  happiness  as  the  chief  end  of  man. 

To  Calhoun  the  American  system  was  an  experiment  in  diversity.  It 
was  based  upon  the  right  of  peoples  to  choose  their  own  way  of  life,  eco- 
nomic and  social,  and  to  live  it,  regardless  of  the  majority  pattern.  Amer- 
ica's freedom  was  in  her  differences.  Under  the  federal  political  system,  as 
written,  different  civilizations,  granting  that  they  could  agree  on  principles 
involving  the  common  interest  and  common  safety  of  all,  could  live  to- 
gether. 

In  the  South  a  special  civilization  had  developed.  It  was  a  Southern 
civilization,  common  only  to  that  region  and  representative  of  it.  Yet  it 
was  under  the  American  system  that  it  had  grown  to  fruition;  and  it 
was  authentically  American. 

With  the  secession  of  the  South,  the  great  American  experiment  would 
be  at  an  end.  As  a  political  philosopher  and  as  a  patriot,  Calhoun  could 
not  bear  to  see  it  end.  Furthermore,  in  the  American  system  Calhoun  saw 
principles  applicable  to  the  entire  world,  to  all  mankind.  One  of  the  earli- 
est advocates  of  cOne  World,'  he  was,  however,  wise  enough  to  know  that 
there  could  never  be  one  pattern  of  culture  for  the  world.  In  a  world 
where  'progress  in  matter,'  as  he  had  long  foreseen,  had  outstripped  moral 
development,8  you  may  say  that  you  must  have  one  standard  of  values 
to  exist,  but  it  does  not  follow  either  that  you  will  have  the  values  or  con- 
tinue to  exist.  As  a  practical  statesman,  Calhoun  was  not  so  much  in- 
terested in  what  you  have  to  have,  or  should  have,  as  in  what  you  could 
have. 

Any  government,  national  or  world-wide,  that  crushes  men  into  a  single 
pattern,  he  deemed  a  despotic  government.  This  was  the  principle  in- 
voked by  every  conqueror  through  time;  and  for  the  United  States,  for 
example,  to  impose  on  the  world  one  system  of  industrial  capitalism, 
whether  good  or  evil,  would  be  adoption  of  the  tyrannical  belief  that 
the  world  could  only  exist  under  one  system.  Half  a  century  before  Adolf 
Hitler  was  born,  Calhoun  had  the  wisdom  to  know  that  although  men 
may  agree  on  general  principles  of  safety,  a  world  system  based  upon  one 
country's  concept  of  freedom,  denies  others  the  very  right  of  choice  which 
is  essential  to  freedom. 


A  world  federal  government,  Calhoun  might  see  as  desirable  and  possible. 
But  he  would  have  laughed  at  what  the  world,  or  the  post-Civil  War 
United  States,  considered  to  be  a  federal  government.  Federal,  as  a  work- 
ing word  in  the  American  vocabulary,  has  indeed  been  dead  since  the 


522  JOHN    C.    CALHOUN 

Civil  War.  For  federal  involved  the  rights  of  peoples  to  control  their  own 
affairs  in  their  own  localities;  and  the  same  federal  principle  which  pro- 
tected the  South  as  a  minority  voice  in  the  United  States  could  be  readily 
invoked  in  a  world  federal  government  today. 

Governments,  Calhoun  had  always  contended,  were  formed  to  protect 
minorities;  majorities  could  look  after  themselves.  As  written,  the  Con- 
stitution had  been  an  attempt  to  protect  minority  rights.  In  a  federal  Un- 
ion the  South  was  a  constant  conservative  check  against  the  national  ad- 
vances of  'liberalism'  and  'progress.'  Thus,  for  the  majority,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  strip  her  of  the  power  to  say  how  the  Constitution  was  written. 
It  was  necessary  to  abolish  the  federal  theory,  and  what  could  not  be  done 
by  law  was  finally  done  by  war. 

The  demolition  work  was  complete.  'Conquered  and  subjugated,'  the 
Southern  people,  as  a  latter-day  statesman  pointed  out,  were  relegated 
to  be  'drawers  of  water  and  hewers  of  wood.'  9  The  war  that  was  to  'free' 
the  Negro  had  left  a  back-wash  of  eleven  million  Southern  men  and  women, 
both  black  and  white,  who  eighty  years. after  the  guns  of  Sumter  and 
Shiloh  were  still,  were  living  on  cash  incomes  of  less  than  two  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  a  year.10  The  South,  which  knew  that  democracy  flour- 
ished only  under  an  economy  in  which  'private  property  was  widely  dis- 
tributed, individually  owned,  and  personally  managed/  had  become  the 
country  of  which  it  could  be  said  that  '85  per  cent  of  Georgia  is  owned  by 
people  outside.' n 

By  the  twentieth  century,  the  'Colonial  status  of  the  South,'  sensed  by 
the  suspicious  Tat'  Calhoun  and  his  backwoodsmen,  prophesied  and  out- 
lined by  John  Calhoun,  had  become  a  recognized,  and,  it  was  to  be  feared, 
a  permanent  status.  By  near  the  half-century  mark,  John  Gunther  could 
report  that  more  Southern  industries  and  more  Southern  resources  were 
'being  transferred  to  Northern  control  month  by  month.'  * 12 

War  had  left  a  whole  people  despoiled,  a  whole  land  laid  waste.  Yet 
hand  in  hand  with  the  Northern  victory  came  the  grimmest,  most  ironic 
joke  of  all.  For  by  bleeding  and  defrauding  the  South,  it  finally  became 
evident  that  the  industrialists  were  bleeding  and  defrauding  themselves. 
High  tariffs  had  walled  out  their  world  markets,  and  their  greatest  home 
market  could  not  afford  to  buy  what  they  made.  The  seed  of  future 
depressions  was  sown  in  the  Southern  states,  as  was  foreseen  by  Franklin 
D.  Roosevelt  when  he  warned  that  the  'economic  unbalance  in  the  Nation 
as  a  whole'  was  'due  to  this  very  condition  of  the  South.' 1S  Here,  indeed, 
was  proof  of  Calhoun's  doctrine  that  only  by  aiding,  not  by  subjecting 
his  fellows  to  his  will,  can  man  assure  prosperity  for  himself. 

'The  South  ...  the  poor  South  .  .  .'  Not  even  in  his  wildest  imagin- 
ings had  Calhoun  foreseen  the  desolation  that  became  the  truth.  But  he 

*Nor  was  this  'Colonial  status'  reversed  by  the  trend  of  Northern-owned  in- 
dustries southward,  through  the  nineteen-forties. 


XXX  MINORITY   CHAMPION  523 

sensed  it,  nevertheless.  He  had  seen  the  beginning  of  the  end,  and  his 
life's  struggle  had  been  to  avoid  that  end.  He  had  warned;  and  his  warn- 
ings were  heeded  too  late.  And  viewing  the  grim  lesson  of  the  'Colonial' 
South  today,*  bleeding  still  from  wounds  unhealed  after  eighty  years, 
would  have  filled  Calhoun  with  fear  as  to  the  fate  of  'backward'  minority 
peoples  under  the  rule  of  a  world  government  unless  it  were  firmly  based 
on  the  federal  principle.  It  is  fortunate,  perhaps,  for  the  peoples  of  the 
world  that  America  developed  a  philosopher  who  believed  that  superior  to 
progress  was  the  right  of  individuals  to  choose  whether  they  would  be 
progressive  or  not;  and  that  federalism  was  a  system — and  not  a  word. 


Calhoun's  love  was  for  liberty.  (He,  of  course,  shared  with  Henry  Clay 
and  virtually  the  entire  Southern  leadership  of  his  day,  the  conviction 
that  the  Negro  slave  formed  'an  exception  .  .  .  from  stern  necessity,  to 
the  general  liberty.')  Yet  'the  more  enlarged  and  secure  the  liberty  of  in- 
dividuals,7 he  declared,  'the  more  perfectly'  government  fulfilled  'the  end 
for  which  it  was  ordained.' 14  Like  Jefferson,  he  knew  that  the  manu- 
facturer must  be  placed  'by  the  side  of  the  agriculturist/  but  industrial 
progress  he  would  have  measured,  not  by  its  profits  to  the  few,  but  by  its 
benefits  to  the  many.  He  had  no  illusions  that  the  capitalistic  system  of 
labor  exploitation,  North  or  South,  had  arisen  with  any  social  benefits  in 
mind.  He  knew  that  'in  point  of  fact'  every  'wealthy  and  civilized'  por- 
tion of  society  lived  upon  the  labor  of  another  class.  Capitalism,  either  as 
Northern  industrialism  or  Southern  slavery,  he  viewed  realistically  as  a 
force  too  great  to  be  eliminated.  Yet  as  a  statesman  it  was  his  task  to  find 
means  to  control  it.  Such  was  the  purpose  of  a  free  government,  Jefferson 
had  declared,  to  'restrain  men  from  injuring  each  other  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
not  take  from  the  mouth  of  labor,  the  bread  it  has  earned/  Or,  as  Cal- 
houn put  it:  'He  who  earns  the  money  has  a  just  title  to  it  against  the 


universe.' ltt 


Calhoun  had  early  realized  that  political  freedom  and  economic  security, 
far  from  being  opposed,  actually  were  counterparts  of  one  another.  'Lib- 
erty and  security,'  he  said,  'are  indispensable.'  If  liberty  left  'each  free  to 

*  Despite  the  much-heralded  talk  of  'equalization'  of  freight  rates  in  recent  years, 
Southern  industry  was  still  paying  tribute  as  late  as  1948.  For  example,  to  send  100 
pounds  of  textiles  808  miles  from  Holyoke,  Massachusetts,  to  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  cost 
$2.54;  to  send  the  same  amount  808  miles  from  Shreveport,  Louisiana,  to  Cincinnati 
cost  $3.13. 


524  JOHN   C.  CALHOUN 

pursue  the  course  he  may  deem  best  to  promote  his  interest  and  happiness 
.  .  .  security  gives  assurance  to  each,  that  he  shall  not  be  deprived  of  his 
exertion  to  better  his  condition.' 16 

If  not  all  secure  men  were  free  (as  in  the  case  of  the  slaves),  Cal- 
houn  reasoned,  it  was  equally  true  that  no  free  man  was  insecure.  With- 
out economic  security  political  freedom  was  a  mockery.  Was  the  penni- 
less, landless,  hopeless  'poor  white'  free?  *  Was  the  laborer  free  whose 
livelihood  depended  upon  his  subservience  to  the  political  will  of  his  em- 
ployer? Was  any  man  free  with  no  security  that  his  work  would  reap  re- 
wards, that  his  children  would  have  the  same  right  as  'privileged'  chil- 
dren to  health,  to  education,  to  normal  adult  development — regardless  of 
depressions  and  cotton  markets? 

Realist  that  he  was,  Calhoun  well  knew  that  men  would  readily  sacri- 
fice their  liberty  to  make  sure  of  'protection'  or  security.  Had  he  not  told 
Benjamin  Perry  that  men  would  choose  protection  in  preference  to  lib- 
erty? He  knew  human  nature.  He  knew  that  'you  could  not  eat  the 
Constitution.'  He  knew  that  men,  although  called  voters  and  citizens, 
thought  'material  things  more  important  than  freedom.'17  There  might 
be  men  (a  minority  of  them)  to  whom  abstract  political  freedom  .was  the 
highest  of  all  earthly  blessings;  but  even  for  these  few  there  would  be 
no  lasting  liberty  without  the  security  of  the  many.  Hence  Calhoun  fav- 
ored the  kind  of  political  system  which  would  at  least  guarantee  to  the 
worker  the  economic  security  possessed  by  a  Negro  slave.  The  test  of  a 
free  government,  he  would  have  declared,  was  the  measure  of  protection 
it  granted  its  weakest  individuals. 

Calhoun's  life,  his  talents,  all  that  was  in  him,  he  consecrated  to  the 
task  of  'handing  down  the  Constitution  as  pure  as  when  he  found  it.'  No 
man  was  a  more  sleepless  guardian  against  its  violation,  no  man  more  untir- 
ing in  his  efforts  to  restore  its  supremacy  over  'the  Congress,  the  Executive, 
and  the  People.' 1S  To  him  the  Union  had  been  devised  for  certain  ends, 
enumerated  in  the  Constitutional  Convention.  Through  the  'peculiar  Fed- 
eral structure'  of  our  government,  America's  freedoms  were  protected. 
If  ours  was  a  government,  not  of  men,  but  of  law,  the  Constitution  was 
the  ultimate  law.  If  our  Union  were  to  endure,  then  the  Constitution 
could  not  be  used  to  defeat  the  ends  it  had  been  written  to  maintain. 

So  reasoned  Calhoun.  And  so  runs  the  explanation  of  his  lifelong  strug- 
gle to  'restore  our  government  to  its  original  purity  and  to  keep  it  within 
the  limits  of  the  Constitution.'  The  Constitution,  as  written,  had  devised 
new  principles  which,  evolved,  might  mean  new  freedoms  for  all  men. 
This  was  the  kind  of  America  he  fought  to  preserve.  'I  don't  want  to 
destroy  the  Union,'  was  his  continual  cry,  'I  only  wish  to  make  it  honest.' 19 

*  Calhoun  failed,  of  course,  to  take  into  account  the  fact  that  much  of  the  poverty 
and  landlessness  of  the  'poor  white'  was  due  to  the  large-scale  plantation  system  and 
the  draining  of  the  land  from  the  cotton  economy. 


XXX 


MINORITY   CHAMPION  525 

If  he  be  a  disunionist  who  insists  upon  constitutional  guarantees  above 
the  will  of  the  people,  upon  the  ultimate  authority  of  law  above  men, 
then  Calhoun  was  a  disunionist.  Logically,  he  was  right.  There  is  no  free- 
dom where  a  simple  majority  can  dispense  with  constitutional  safeguards. 
If  a  popular  majority  were  to  become  the  ultimate  law,  then,  as  Jefferson 
had  realized,  the  Constitution  would  be  so  much  waste  paper.  Men  could 
talk  of  freedom  while  they  violated  the  constitutional  provisions  that 
authorized  slavery,  but  Calhoun  knew,  only  too  well,  that  if  constitutional 
law  could  be  set  aside  at  will  to  free  the  blacks,  it  could  as  easily  be  dis- 
regarded to  enslave  the  whites. 


Despite  all  the  guarantees  of  its  written  Constitution,  however,  none 
knew  better  than  Calhoun  that  the  United  States  was  far  from  immune  to 
the  dangers  that  had  destroyed  all  free  republics  of  the  past.  Totalitarian- 
ism was  not  a  word  in  his  vocabulary — oligarchy  would  have  been  his 
nearest  approach  to  it — but  he  was  aware  of  its  meanings  nevertheless.  In 
every  past  age,  democracies  had  drifted  steadily  toward  consolidation, 
and  consolidation  meant  the  destruction  of  the  local  rights  and  freedoms 
that  the  republic  was  created  to  preserve.  Only  a  federal  as  opposed  to 
a  national  system  of  government  could  prevent  this;  and  the  future  co- 
lonial subjugation  of  both  the  South  and  West  would  prove  an  interesting 
object  lesson  to  idealists  who  pinned  their  faith  in  mere  political  de- 
mocracy without  restraints. 

It  is  true  that  for  both  the  South  and  West  the  exploitations  of  big 
business  during  New  Deal  days  were  considerably  eased  by  a  govern- 
ment with  power  to  oppose  them.  Yet  even  here  the  South  profited  pri- 
marily because  a  party  favorable  to  its  interests  wielded  the  power.  Had 
the  reverse  been  true,  the  states  had  no  reserved  powers  by  which  the 
processes  of  consolidation  could  have  been  checked. 


8 

To  a  truly  federal  Union,  Calhoun  asserted,  'consolidation  and  disunion' 
would  be  equally  destructive.20  And  the  one  would  be  the  result  of  the 
other.  Southern  aspirations  to  nationalism,  although  the  outgrowth  of 
real  encroachments  and  real  dangers,  were  in  themselves  as  great  a  danger 
to  the  Union  as  the  forces  they  opposed.  Calhoun  had  long  tried  to  siphon 
this  Southern  nationalism  off  through  the  individual  states,  but  without 
success.  Only  in  later  years,  as  we  have  seen,  had  he  realized  that  the 
only  way  to  keep  it  from  destroying  the  Union  was  to  consolidate  the 


526  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

Southern  element.  And  to  this  end  a  constitutional  amendment  was  essen- 
tial, for  the  old  spirit  of  mutual  interest  and  mutual  affection  was  gone. 

America's  very  individuality  was  its  worst  danger.  As  Calhoun  put  it, 
'the  more  extensive  and  populous  the  country,  the  more  diverse  the  ... 
pursuits  of  its  population,  and  the  richer  .  .  .  and  more  dissimilar  the 
people,  the  more  difficult  it  is  to  equalize'  the  action  of  government,  espe- 
cially 'in  reference  to  the  varied  and  diversified  interests  of  the  com- 
munity.' Nothing  was  more  easy  than  oppression  under  the  cloak  of  laws 
'which  on  their  face  appear  fair  and  equal.' 21  Here,  in  a  line,  was  the 
history  of  the  tariff  struggle;  of  the  whole  country,  in  fact,  between  the 
Revolution  and  the  Civil  War. 

With  haunted  vision  the  prophet  had  read  the  future.  He  had  not 
flinched,  not  withdrawn  from  the  darkness  that  he  saw.  Grimly  he  set 
himself  to  solve  the  problem  that  had  wrecked  every  constitutional  re- 
public of  the  past — to  find  ways  to  prevent  men  from  oppressing  each 
other  and  from  wrecking  that  justice  which  the  Union  had  been  devised 
to  preserve. 

How,  he  asked,  in  substance,  'can  we  construct  a  working  machine  for 
the  democratic  state,  without  bestowing  upon  the  majority  an  absolute 
dictatorship?'  Like  Jefferson,  he  could  say  that  'the  right  of  suffrage  is 
the  ...  primary  principle  in  ...  a  constitutional  government,'22  but 
unlike  the  Virginian,  Calhoun's  faith  in  suffrage  and  the  numerical  ma- 
jority alone  was  not  uncritical.  Suffrage  could  do  no  more  than  guarantee 
the  responsibility  of  the  elected  to  the  group  that  elected  them.  If  the 
common  interest  were  the  same,  suffrage  would  be  enough.  But  instead, 
there  was  a  continual  'struggle  .  .  .  between  the  various  interests  to  con- 
trol the  government.'  **  If  one  was  not  strong  enough,  a  combine  would 
be  'formed  between  those  whose  interests  are  most  alike.'  The  dominant 
class  would  serve  'its  class  interests  .  .  .  would  be  the  rulers  .  .  .  the 
minority  ...  as  much  the  ...  subject  portion,  as  are  the  people  in  a 
monarchy.'  ** 

No  justice,  Calhoun  contended,  written  constitution  or  none,  could  be 
preserved  without  restraints.  'It  is  idle,  worse  than  idle,  to  attempt  to 
distinguish  .  .  .  between  a  government  of  unlimited  powers,  and  one  pro- 
fessedly limited,  but  with  an  unlimited  right  to  determine  the  extent  of 
its  powers.' 25  Yet  such,  men  were  beginning  to  claim,  was  the  structure 
of  the  United  States. 

He  had  seen  as  early  as  nullification  days  the  error  in  our  Constitution, 
that  the  'Federal  government  contains  ...  no  provisions  by  which  the 
powers  delegated  could  be  prevented  from  encroaching  on  the  powers  re- 
served to  the  several  States.7 

Why  has  this  fundamental  omission  been  made?  Calhoun  would  have 
said  that  it  was  due  to  a  faulty  concept  of  human  nature,  and  of  this  the 
Jeffersonians  were  the  most  guilty.  It  was  they  who  had  written  equality 


XXX  MINORITY  CHAMPION  527 

alone,  not  equity,  into  the  Declaration  of  Independence.  Equality  of 
citizens  'in  the  eyes  of  the  law/  Calhoun  of  course  deemed  'essential  to 
liberty  in  a  popular  government.'  *  The  non-voting  citizenry — the  Negroes, 
the  women  and  children — he  saw  as  comparable  to  the  passengers  on  a 
ship;  not  directing  Che  passage,  but  sharing  in  the  privileges  and  the  pro- 
tections of  the  voyage.27 

To  Calhoun  equality  too  often  meant  only  an  equal  chance  for  the  un- 
equally endowed  to  compete  for  a  goal.  Not  equity,  but  laissez-faire.  Not 
protection,  but  exploitation.  And  this  tragedy  had  occurred  through  the 
Jeffersonians'  second  faulty  concept  of  human  nature.  Steeped  as  they 
were  in  the  idealism  of  the  French  Revolutionary  philosophers,  they  had 
assumed  that  an  ideal  government  made  ideal  men;  that  the  evil  in  the 
world  was  not  from  men,  but  from  the  institutions  that  held  them  down. 
Men  were  inherently  good;  and  by  this  fallacy  the  Jeffersonians  had 
blinded  themselves  to  the  danger  of  unchecked  democracy  becoming  the 
very  source  of  its  own  destruction. 

For  all  men  were  not  inherently  good,  and  the  institutions  that  crushed 
them  were  themselves  man-made.  Had  the  doctrine  of  inherent  goodness 
been  true,  then  an  assumption  of  equality -might  have  been  possible.  Recog- 
nizing the  divine  equality  of  human  souls,  men  of  talent  would  voluntarily 
have  protected,  not  exploited,  those  with  whom  Nature  had  been  less 
generous. 

But  the  Hamiltonians  had  understood.  Throughout  the  ages  realists  of 
their  ilk  had  perceived  the  true  nature  of  man.  They  had  understood  it 
and  they  had  exploited  it.  At  seventeen  Hamilton  had  perceived  what 
Calhoun  only  realized  at  thirty-seven:  that  'a  vast  majority  of  mankind 
is  entirely  biassed  by  motives  of  self-interest/  *  and  that  by  this  interest 
must  be  governed. 

Bitter  experience  had  opened  Calhoun's  eyes.  Freedom,  he  knew,  was 
not  to  be  saved  by  denying  the  dangers  to  freedom.  An  ideal  government 
did  not  make  ideal  men.  Thomas  Jefferson  and  the  French  theorists  could 
not  do  in  a  generation  what  Christianity  had  been  unable  to  do  in  eighteen 
hundred  years. 

Yet  where  the  Hamiltonians,  to  gratify  the  aims  of  the  few,  would  use 
the  facts  of  human  nature  to  exploit  the  many,  Calhoun  would  use  the 
same  facts  to  protect  all  men  from  one  another.  If  men  were  selfish,  selfish- 
ness should  be  recognized,  and  when  acknowledged,  it  could  be  controlled. 

Defiant  of  the  French  Revolutionary  theory  of  man  'in  a  state  of  nature/ 
Calhoun  turned  to  the  facts.  Man,  he  contended,  existed  only  in  the  social 
state,  and  the  social  state  necessitated  government.  Yet  man  had  *a  greater 
regard  for  his  own  safety  and  happiness  than  for  the  safety  or  happiness 
of  others';  and  'hence,  the  tendency  to  a  universal  state  of  conflict/ 
if  not  prevented  by  some  controlling  power.29  Government  would  be 
completely  unnecessary  if  men  truly  loved  their  neighbors  as  themselves. 


528  JOHN    C.   CALHOUN 

Self-interest,  Calhoun  knew,  could  be  as  ruthless  in  a  democracy  as  in 
a  monarchy.  Bitterly  he  ridiculed  cthe  folly  of  supposing  that  the  party 
in  possession  of  the  ballot  box  and  the  physical  force  of  the  country  could 
be  successfully  resisted  by  an  appeal  to  reason,  truth,  justice,  or  the  obliga- 
tions of  the  Constitution/ 30 

Had  not  all  history  taught  him  otherwise? 

What  could  be  done?  Calhoun,  at  least,  had  an  answer.  Any  political 
ideal,  he  contended,  was  useless,  unless  built  upon  a  foundation  of  the 
facts.  And  he  tore  at  the  facts  with  a  realism  that  left  the  last  of  Jefferson's 
idealistic  concept  of  men  in  'shreds  and  tatters.'31  He  re-examined  the 
teachings  of  the  fathers,  substituted  economic  realism  for  abstract  humani- 
tarianism;  and  based  his  democratic  faith  upon  a  new  foundation. 

What  he  proposed  was  a  blending  of  the  two  dominant  trends  of  Amer- 
ican thought,  the  Jeffersonian  ideal  upon  the  Hamiltonian  foundations. 
Not  rejecting  majority  rule,  but  expounding  it  and  providing  for  its  con- 
trol, he  worked  out  a  corollary  to  Jefferson's  thought  and  suggested  con- 
stitutional reforms  that  'might  prove  the  salvation  of  political  democracy 
in  America.' 82 

His  basic  solution,  the  substitution  of  the  'concurrent'  for  the  numerical 
majority,  was  revolutionary — perhaps  his  most  revolutionary  contribution 
to  political  thought.33  His  aim  was  a  government,  not  'of  a  part  over  a  part/ 
but  of  'a  part  made  identical  with  the  whole.' **  How  could  this  be  done? 
By  consulting  the  voice  'of  each  interest  or  portion  of  the  community, 
which  may  be  unequally  or  injuriously  affected  by  the  action  of  the  gov- 
ernment,' before  putting  laws  into  operation.  'Each  division  or  interest' 
should  have  'either  a  concurrent  voice  in  making  and  executing  the  laws, 
or  a  veto  on  their  execution.'  Thus  would  the  different  interests  be  'pro- 
tected, and  all  conflict  and  struggle  between  them  prevented.' S5 

Calhoun  was,  of  course,  sufficiently  realistic  to  know  that  although  in 
theory  he  sought  'the  sense  of  the  entire  community,'  necessarily  only 
'a  few  great  and  prominent  interests'  could  be  thus  represented.36  Neverthe- 
less, legislation  would  be  more  just  if  enacted  by  a  nation-wide  majority 
of  farm,  laboring,  and  financial  groups  than  by  a  majority  of  the  one  over 
the  other. 

In  a  modern  application  of  his  plan,  the  'concurrent  veto'  seems,  of 
course,  the  stumbling-block.  Yet  this  objection  is  lessened  if  we  reject 
the  twentieth-century  concept  of  the  term  'veto/  for  which  Calhoun  would 
have  had  only  scorn,  and  remember  that  under  his  nullification  theories  a 
state  could  suspend  a  law  only  in  relation  to  itself,  not  for  the  rest  of  the 
country.  And  in  time  of  war,  Calhoun  realized  that,  Constitution  or  no 
Constitution,  freedom  was  at  an  end,  although  undoubtedly  he  would 
have  preferred  that  the  Constitution  admit  this  truth  explicitly.  His  own 


XXX  MINORITY  CHAMPION  529 

words  were  clear:  'Government  .  .  .  must  in  the  present  condition  of  the 
world,  be  clothed  with  powers  sufficient  to  call  forth  the  resources  of  the 
community,  and  be  prepared  at  all  times,  to  command  promptly  in  all 
emergencies  .  .  .  large  establishments  .  .  .  both  civil  and  military  .  .  . 
with  well-trained  forces  in  sufficient  numbers.  .  .  .' S7  'Liberty  must  always 
be  subject  to  power  which  prevents  from  internal  or  external  dangers* 
.  .  .  Liberty  must  yield  to  protection;  as  the  existance  of  the  race  is  of 
greater  moment  than  its  improvement.' M 

However,  in  time  of  peace,  Calhoun  knew  that  there  was  no  justice  with- 
out self-determination.  It  was  not  democracy  when  '51%  of  the  people 
have  a  moral  right  to  coerce  49  %?  30  To  put  the  matter  into  terms  of  our 
day,  would  there  be  any  moral  sanction  for  the  re-establishment  of  slavery, 
provided  that  a  majority  could  be  induced  to  vote  for  it? 

Calhoun,  'bolder  and  more  logical  than  Jefferson/ 40  feared  centralized 
government  no  less  than  unrestrained  industrialism,  but  he  knew  it  was 
a  fait  accompli,  and  hence  must  be  recognized  and  controlled.  Again,  a 
realist,  he  saw  that  'We  must  take  men  as  they  are,  and  do  the  best  we 
can  with  them.  ...  If  all  were  disinterested  patriots,  there  would  be  no 
difficulty  in  running  or  managing  the  political  machine,  and  very  little 
credit  in  doing  either.' 41 

If  a  free  government  could  rest  only  upon  the  realization  of  the  Chris- 
tian ideal  of  brotherhood  and  unselfishness,  then,  Calhoun  feared,  we 
should  never  have  a  free  government.  Men  could  be  free,  however — even 
with  selfish  human  nature  unchanged — if  they  had  but  wisdom  enough  to 
understand  themselves.  Self-interest  could  be  the  best  promoter  of  com- 
promises. When  men  realized  that  their  own  interests  would  be  lost  unless 
they  allowed  their  fellows  to  protect  themselves,  then  only  would  agree- 
ments be  reached.  A  democracy  based  on  the  principle  of  the  concurrent 
majority,  Calhoun  believed,  would  unite  the  most  conflicting  elements, 
'and  blend  the  whole  in  one  common  attachment  to  the  country.  .  .  .  Each 
sees  and  feels  that  it  can  best  promote  its  own  prosperity  by  ...  pro- 
moting the  prosperity  of  the  others.'  For  antipathy  and  rivalry  would  be 
substituted  the  ideal  of  'the  common  good.'42 

Complicated?  Yes.  The  unrestrained  government  of  a  numerical  ma- 
jority, Calhoun  readily  admitted,  had  the  'major  advantage  of  simplicity.' 4S 
Constitutional  governments  were  complex,  and  the  higher  and  freer  they 
were,  the  more  complex  they  became.  He  did  not  deny  that  a  'mutual  neg- 
ative* might  lead  to  collision  and  conflict,  might  even  momentarily  render 
government  'incompetent.'  Liberty  from  the  oppression  of  a  majority, 
however,  seemed  to  him  well  worth  the  dangers.  Furthermore,  each  mi- 
nority would,  in  turn,  be  restrained  in  the  use  of  its  'veto'  by  its  own 
internal  minorities.  Another  restraint  would  be  the  inevitable  reluctance  to 
break  the  lines  of  the  great  political  parties. 


S30  JOHN   C.   CALHOUN 

Because  of  his  appreciation  of  the  complexities  of  a  government  at  once 
democratic  and  free,  Calhoun  insisted  it  be  run  by  those  intelligent  and 
informed  enough  to  deal  with  its  difficulties. 

Here,  indeed,  is  the  very  foundation  of  his  defense  of  slavery.  For  where 
Jefferson  loved  freedom  too  much  to  deny  it  to  the  least  of  men,  Calhoun 
loved  it  too  much  to  surrender  it  to  those  who  he  thought  might  endanger 
it.  He  had  lived  to  see  the  new  birth  of  tyrannies  in  'free'  Jamaica  and 
Santo  Domingo;  the  abortive  and  short-lived  birth  of  freedom  in  Ger- 
many; the  return  of  imperial  despotism  to  France.  Freedom,  he  knew, 
was  not  a  grant,  but  an  accomplishment;  lasting,  not  when  superimposed 
from  without,  but  only  as  it  grew  from  within. 

He  believed  completely  that  the  encroachments  of  the  rich  were  'more 
destructive  to  the  state  than  those  of  the  poor';  but  he  felt  sure  also 
that  a  forced  political  equality  among  those  of  unequal  capacity  would 
only  deny  liberty  to  those  most  fitted  to  uphold  and  maintain  it.  It  would 
mean  a  government  of  the  lowest  rather  than  of  the  highest  elements  in 
the  citizenry.  The  natural  'inequality  of  condition/  he  claimed,  gave  an 
'impetus  to  those  on  top'  to  maintain  themselves,  and  to  the  others  'to 
press  forward'  into  their  places.  'This  gives  progress  its  greatest  impulse.' 
But  to  'force  the  front  rank  back  to  the  rear,  or  attempt  to  push  forward 
the  rear  .  .  .  would  effectually  arrest  .  .  .  progress.'4* 

Jefferson  himself  had  called  for  a  government  of  the  'natural  aristocracy/ 
and  had  declared  that  a  government  of  landowning  farmers  was  the  best; 
of  'mechanics'  the  worst.  It  was  also  Jefferson  who  advocated  majority 
rule.  The  changed  complexion  of  our  population  in  half  a  century,  however, 
had  made  these  demands  incompatible.  In  a  nation  where  'mechanics' 
and  industrialists  were  in  the  majority,  it  was  assured  that  in  an  un- 
restrained democracy  they  would  govern. 

The  question  that  was  the  'major  problem'  of  Calhoun's  day  is  the 
major  problem  of  our  own.  The  realism,  as  well  as  the  inevitability,  of 
Calhoun's  basic  premise  has  been  shown  by  the  rise  of  a  sort  of  minority 
control,  'not  unlike  his  concurrent  veto.'  Our  modern  pressure  groups — 
farm  bloc,  silver  bloc,  labor  bloc,  and  all  the  many  others — are  an  'extra- 
legal  and  unsatisfactory'  attempt  to  protect  minority  interests.45  The  ob- 
jections to  the  activities  of  these  groups,  which  we  so  frequently  voice,  are 
due  to  their  extralegal  quality  and  the  consequent  difficulty  of  controlling 
them.  Calhoun,  by  regularizing  and  embodying  in  law  these  inevitable 
minority  aspirations,  would  have  made  them  at  once  more  effective  and 
more  controlled. 

Calhoun  visualized  a  Congress  of  strictly  defined  group  representation, 
in  which  each  group  would  have  final  say  on  questions  primarily  affecting 
itself.  Instead  of  viewing  one  another  as  competitors,  each  group,  he  felt, 
would  come  to  realize  that  its  prosperity  was  directly  dependent  upon  the 
rights  and  prosperity  of  the  other.  As  Herbert  Agar  has  said,  'Perhaps  no 


XXX  MINORITY   CHAMPION  531 

democracy  can  avoid  tyrannizing  over  its  minority  groups,  unless  it  is  will- 
ing to  adopt  some  system  similar  to  Calhoun's  concurrent  veto.'  ^ 

Similarities  will  be  observed  between  Calhoun's  plan  and  the  legislative 
representation  of  varied  'interests'  which  we  have  seen  in  the  twentieth- 
century  'corporate  states/  such  as  Mussolini's  Italy.  The  evil  which  cor- 
rupted these  states  does  not,  of  course,  argue  that  all  their  institutions 
were  evil.  It  does  go  to  show  that  neither  Calhoun's  nor  any  other  system 
can  provide  adequate  safeguards  against  man's  persecution  of  his  fellows. 

Calhoun  was  right  in  thinking  that  his  plan  would  strengthen  demo- 
cratic processes.  He  was  wrong  in  thinking  it  a  cure-all.  His  concurrent 
veto  for  major  economic  groups  might  prevent  the  oppression  of  the  farmer 
by  the  industrial  laborer,  or  of  the  laborer  by  the  manufacturer.  It  might 
guarantee  the  poor  white  a  livelihood;  it  could  not  save  the  Negro  from 
lynch  law.  It  might  ease  class  lines  on  the  basis  of  poverty  or  injustice;  it 
could  not  erase  color  lines  or  religious  prejudices. 

We  have  seen  the  efforts  of  minority  groups  to  protect  their  'interests' 
by  'pressure  groups.'  The  philosophy  underlying  Calhoun's  proposals  has 
also  become  a  dominant,  if  extralegal,  force  in  our  great  political  parties 
and  within  the  government  itself.  Perhaps  the  basic  rule  of  American 
political  parties  is  to  utilize,  reconcile,  and  absorb  the  diverse  interest 
groups  which  compose  them.  The  obscurities  and  contradictions  which  so 
often  compose  their  platforms  are  but  practical  attempts  to  compromise 
these  divergent  demands.  For  their  mutual  benefit  each  group  tacitly  binds 
itself  to  tolerate  the  interests  of  the  others,  both  in  writing  a  'flexible' 
platform  and  in  choosing  an  'available'  candidate. 

Within  the  government  the  Cabinet  posts  and  'special  interest  agencies' 
are  in  their  essence  representatives  of  group  interests.  And  in  the  halls  of 
Congress  we  daily  observe  that  mutual  'courtesy'  and  compromising  coali- 
tion which  tend  to  prevent  the  enactment  of  laws  damaging  to  the  'in- 
terests' of  a  regional  or  economic  group.* 

All  this  Calhoun  would  have  codified  and  enacted  into  law,  and  as  Her- 
bert Agar  has  pointed  out,  'A  modern  adaptation  of  Calhoun's  plan,  giving 
to  the  major  economic  interests  ...  the  concurring  power  .  .  .  might 
go  far  towards  removing  both  class  and  economic  distinctions.'  Meanwhile, 
we  put  up  with  the  unrestricted,  extralegal  'rule'  of  group  interests  'until 
we  are  prepared  to  give  interest  groups  a  positive  voice  in  lawmaking.' 47 

A  statesman's  value  is  relative,  after  all;  and  judged  by  later  times,  and 
his  meaning  for  them,  Calhoun  stands  in  the  first  rank  of  men  America 
has  produced.  For  as  thinker  and  prophet,  he  was  more  important  for 
later  times  than  for  his  own. 

*For  a  further  elaboration  on  the  operation  of  the  concurrent  majority  system 
today,  see  John  Fischer's  interesting  article,  'Unwritten  Rules  of  American  Politics/ 
in  Harper's  Magazine,  November,  1948. 


532  JOHN    C.    CALHOUN 

He  knew  that  in  his  day  he  would  fail. 

He  knew  that  he  was  setting  himself  against,  not  only  the  growing 
strength  of  the  industrial  North,  but  the  forces  of  history,  the  spirit  of  the 
age.  He  saw  that  spirit  as  a  whole  'and  challenged  it  as  a  whole.'  He  knew 
that  his  own  name  and  his  own  fame  would  go  down  to  ruin.  He  did  not 
care.  He  would  not  have  wanted  even  his  name  'to  outlive  the  thing  he 
loved.'  His  concern  was  for  fundamentals,  for  the  principles  of  free  gov- 
ernment which  he  believed  to  be  as  basic  and  unyielding  as  the  principles 
of  scientific  truth.  Politics  he  saw  as  a  science  for  the  development  and 
freedom  of  man;  and  in  writing  his  books,  just  as  he  thought,  'without 
fear  or  favor,'  his  hope  was  to  lay  'a  solid  foundation  for  political 
science/  ** 

For  him  there  was  only  the  duty  to  point  out  the  truth  as  he  saw  it. 
Truth,  he  knew,  was  more  important  than  success,  and  he  was  content 
to  do  his  duty  'without  looking  further.'  He  knew,  as  his  successor,  Jef- 
ferson Davis,  knew,  that  the  principle  for  which  he  contended  was  'bound 
to  reassert  itself,  although  it  may  be  at  another  time  and  in  another  form.' 49 
Sustained  by  the  tenets  of  that  Calvinistic  faith  which  had  enveloped 
.him  from  boyhood,  he  faced  the  gathering  darkness,  unafraid. 


THE   END 


NOTES 


HERITAGE 


1.  W.  H.  Sparks,  Old  Times  in  Georgia: 
The  Memories  of  Fifty  Years,  108- 
109. 

2.  Ben  Robertson,  Red  Hills  and  Cot- 
ton:  An  Upcountry  Memory,  121- 
122. 

3.  Sparks,  69. 

4.  John   C.   Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria 
Clemson,    March    7,    1848,    in    the 
Correspondence  of  John  C.  Calhoun, 
J.    Franklin    Jameson,   ed.,    in    the 
Annual  Report  of  the  American  His- 
torical  Association  for  1899,  II,  744- 
745.  (Cited  hereafter  as  Correspond- 
ence.) 

5.  Sparks,  14,  16. 

6.  D.  H.  Fleming,   The  Story   of  the 
Scotch  Covenanters,  72,  76. 

7.  Sparks,  16-17. 

8.  David   Ramsay,   History   of  South 
Carolina,  I,  452. 

9.  See  J.  B.  O'Neall,  Annals  of  New- 
berry,    244-245;    John    S.    Jenkins, 
Life  of  John  Caldwett  Calhoun,  21. 

10.  James  Parton,  Famous  Americans  of 
Recent  Times,  117-118. 

11.  Calhoun   to    Miss   Nancy    Calhoun, 
May  30,  1847.  Copy  in  possession  of 
Miss  Lilian   Gold,   Flint,  Michigan. 

12.  John    H.    Logan,    History    of    the 
Upper  Country  of  South  Carolina,  I, 
150. 

13.  William  P.  Starke,  cAccount  of  Cal- 
houn's   Early  Life,'   in   the   Annual 
Report  of  the  American  Historical 
Association    for     1899,    n,    67-68. 
(Cited  hereafter  as  Starke.) 

14.  Anonymous,  Life  of  John  C.  Cal- 
houn,  5.    (Cited  hereafter  as   Cal- 
houn,    Life.) 

15.  Jenkins,  22. 

16.  Parton,  118. 

17.  Ibid. 


18.  Christopher    Hollis,    The   American 
Heresy,  83. 

19.  Calhoun,  Life,  5. 

20.  Starke,  69. 

21.  Ibid.,  70-71. 

22.  Calhoun,  Life,  5. 

23.  Jenkins,  24;  Starke,  72. 

24.  Parton,  186. 

25.  Calhoun,  Life,  5. 

26.  Charleston  City  Gazette  and  Daily 
Advertiser,  March  7,  1796. 

27.  Wills  of  South   Carolina,  I,  37,  in 
South     Caroliniana    Library,     Uni- 
versity of  South  Carolina,  Columbia. 

28.  Hamilton    Basso,    Mainstream,    47- 
48. 

29.  Sparks,   24-25. 

30.  Elbridge  S.  Brooks,  Historic  Amer- 
icans y  292. 

31.  Starke,  73. 

32.  Ibid.,  32. 

33.  Robertson,  64. 

34.  Basil  Hall,  Travels  in  America,  II, 
230;    Ulrich   B.   Phillips,   Life    and 
Labor  in  the  Old  South,  124. 

35.  Robertson,  57-58,  223. 

36.  James  Edward  Colhoun,  quoted  in 
Starke,  75. 

37.  Starke,  68. 

38.  Jenkins,   25. 

39.  Starke,  75. 

40.  Ibid.,  73. 

41.  South    Carolina    Gazette,   May    10, 
1798,  in  Clemson  College  Papers. 

42.  Fort    Hill    neighborhood    tradition. 
See  also  Walter  L.  Miller,  'Calhoun 
as  a  Lawyer  and  Statesman,'   The 
Green  Bag,  XI,  no.  5,  197,- 424. 

43.  Starke,  77. 

44.  Miller,  The  Green  Bag,  XI,  no.  5, 
147,   424. 

45.  Starke,  77-78. 


H.    FOR  GOD  AND  TIMOTHY  DWIGHT 


1.  Christopher    Hollis,    The    American 
Heresy,  83. 

2.  Hamilton    Basso,    Mainstream,    47- 
48;  William  E.  Dodd,  The  Cotton 
Kingdom,  100. 

3.  Twelve   Southerners,  I'll  Take  My 
Stand,  111. 

4.  William  P.  Starke,  'Account  of  Cal- 
houn's  Early  Life,'  Correspondence, 
77. 


5.  J.  E.  D.  Shipp,  Giant  Days;  or  The 
Life  and  Times  of  William  H.  Craw- 
ford, 167. 

6.  J.  G.  Swift,  Measures,  Not  Men,  5. 

7.  Starke,  80. 

8.  Calhoun  to  Alexander  Noble,  Sep- 
tember,  1801,  printed   copy  in  the 
office  of  the  South  Carolina  Depart- 
ment of  Education,  Columbia,  South 
Carolina. 


536 


NOTES:  CHAPTER  n 


9.  William  E.  Dodd,  Statesmen  of  the 
Old  South,  83-84. 

10.  J.  W.  Barber,  Views  of  New  Haven,        38. 
4. 

11.  Students'  Treasury  bills,  1799-1808, 
manuscript  in  MSS.  Division,  Yale 
Library.  39. 

12.  J.   B.  Reynold,   Samuel  H.   Fisher, 
Henry   B.   Wright,    Two    Centuries 
of  Christian  Activity  at  Yale;  quo- 
tation  from   James   Kingsley,    Yale       40. 
College,  I,  118. 

13.  The  Laws  of  Yak  College,  chap.  2, 

p.    8,   in   Yale   Rare    Book   Room.        41. 
(Hereafter  referred  to  as  Laws.)  42. 

14.  Samuel   G.   Goodrich,   Recollections       43. 
of  a  Lifetime,  I,  348-349.  44. 

15.  Treasurer's   Records,   Dec.   8,    1802, 
in  MSS.  Division,  Yale  Library. 

16.  Laws,  chap.  2,  p.  9.  45. 

17.  Ibid.,  chap.  8,  pp.  24-27. 

18.  Calhoun     to     William     P.     Starke, 
quoted  in  Starke,  80.  46. 

19.  Alexander   Fisher   to    Caleb   Fisher, 
Jan.    16,   1813,  and  Dec.  30,   1809, 
Fisher  Papers,  Yale  Library. 

20.  Laws,  chap.  3,  p.  16.  47. 

21.  Reminiscences     of     Dr.     Alexander 
Stephens,  quoted  in  manuscript  rec- 
ords of  the  Linonian  Society,  Yale       48. 
Library. 

22.  Swift,  5-6.  49. 

23.  Laws,  chap.  9,  pp.  11-12. 

24.  Ibid.,  chap.  8,  p.  11.  50. 

25.  Ezekiel  P.  Belden,  Sketches  of  Yak       51. 
College,  145.  52. 

26.  Laws,  chap.  3,  p.  13. 

27.  Belden,    147-148. 

28.  Ibid.,  149.  53. 

29.  Alexander   Fisher   to   Caleb   Fisher, 
June  18,  1813,  and  Aug.  12,  1814. 

30.  Calhoun  to  Alexander  Noble,  Oct.  15, 
1804,  Correspondence,  94.  54. 

31.  T.  S.  Green,  Catalogue  of  Yale  Col-       55. 
kge  Library.  56. 

32.  George  P.  Fisher,  The  Life  of  Ben- 
jamin SilUman,  I,  34-35. 

33.  Connecticut    Journal    and    Herald,       57. 
Oct.  27,  Dec.  10,  1803. 

34.  Timothy  Dwight,  Jr.,  Memories  of 

Yak  Life  and  Men,  321.  58. 

35.  Ibid.,  40. 

36.  Manuscript   diary   of   Daniel   Mul- 
ford,  April,  1801,  to  Dec.,  1807,  en-       59. 
try  for  July  4,   1805,  in  Yale  Li- 
brary. 

37.  Reynold,  Two  Centuries  of  Chris- 
tian   Activity    at    Yale;    quotation       60. 
from  Bagg,  Four  Years  at  Yale,  17 ; 

see  also  Fisher,  The  Life  of  Ben-       61. 


jamin  Silliman,  I,  34,  39;  and  Ly- 
man  Beecher,  Autobiography,  I,  40. 
Brief  Memories  of  the  Class  of  1802; 
see  also  Fisher,  I,  53;  and  E.  C. 
Tracy,  Memoirs  of  the  Life  of 
Jeremiah  Evarts,  21. 
Records  of  the  Yale  College  'Moral 
Society'  for  April  11,  1816,  quoted 
in  Two  Centuries  of  Christian  Ac- 
tivity at  Yale. 

Frederick  Marryat,  Diary  in  Amer- 
ica, 68  (one-volume  American  edi- 
tion) . 

Goodrich,  I,  354. 
Marryat,  226. 
Belden,  48. 

Franklin  B.  Dexter,  Biographical 
Sketches  of  the  Graduates  of  Yak 
College,  V,  647,  676. 
R.  Gibson  to  James  MacBride, 
April  18,  ^  1817,  MacBride  Papers, 
MSS.  Division,  Library  of  Congress. 
Calhoun  to  James  MacBride,  Feb. 
16,  1812,  and  Dec.  15,  1812,  Mac- 
Bride  Papers,  MSS.  Division,  Library 
of  Congress. 

Calhoun  to  Micah  Sterling,  April  1, 
1818,   Calhoun  Papers,   MSS.   Divi- 
sion, Library  of  Congress. 
R.  D.  French,  Memorial  Quadrangle, 
157. 

Hermann  von  Hoist,  John  C.  Cal- 
houn, 6. 
Fisher,  II,  50. 
Ibid.,  II,  97. 

Reminiscences  of  Dr.  Alexander 
Stephens  in  manuscript  records  of 
Linonian  Society. 

Manuscript    records    of    the    Alpha 
Chapter,  Phi  Beta  Kappa,  Yale  Col- 
lege, July  11,  1803,  in  Yale  Mem- 
orabilia Room. 
Ibid.,  July  25,  1803. 
Ibid.,  Dec.  19,  1803. 
Calhoun  to  Isaac  Townsend,  Feb.  30, 
1827,  hi  records  of  Alpha  Chapter, 
Phi  Beta  Kappa. 

Manuscript  records  of  Alpha  Chap- 
ter,    Phi     Beta     Kappa,     Dec.     5, 
1803,  and  Dec.  20,   1803. 
Manuscript  records  of  the  Linonian 
Society  and  the  Brothers  in  Unity 
hi  MSS.  Division,  Yale  Library. 
Calhoun     to    William     H.     Storrs, 
June  15,  1840,  copy  in  manuscript 
records    of    Brothers   in    Unity    at 
Yale. 

Wilbur      L.      Cross,      Connecticut 
Yankee,  148. 
Manuscript  records  of  the  Linonian 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  n  AND  m 


537 


Society  at  Yale,  entries  for  Nov.  31, 
1803;  June  13,  1803;  Aug.  1,  1803; 
and  March  2,  1804. 

62.  Manuscript  records  of  the  Brothers 
in  Unity   at  Yale,  June  13,   1803. 

63.  Manuscript  records  of  Alpha  Chap- 
ter,   Phi     Beta     Kappa,    in    Yale 
Memorabilia     Room;     entries     for 
Sept.     5,     1803;     July     13,     1802; 
Nov.  IS,  1802 ;  and  Feb.  7,  1803. 

64.  Roger  S.  Boardman,  Life  of  Roger 
Sherman,  332. 

65.  George  F.  Hoar,  Autobiography  of 
Seventy  Years,  8. 

66.  Goodrich,  I,  348-349. 

67.  J.  G.  Swift,  6. 

68.  Fisher,  II,  97. 

69.  Timothy    Dwight,   Jr.,   Decision   of 
Questions,  99,  42. 

70.  John  S.  Jenkins,  The  Life  of  John 
Caldwell  Calhoun,  31. 

71.  See  the  'Scheme  of  the  Exercises  for 
the  Public  Commencement,  Yale  Col- 


lege, Sept.  21,  1804.5  In  MS.  Divi- 
sion, Yale  Library. 

72.  Walter  Miller,  'Calhoun  as  a  Lawyer 
and  Statesman,*  The  Green  Bag,  XI, 
201-202. 

73.  Anson  Phelps  Stokes,  Memorials  of 
Eminent  Yale  Men,  II,  199. 

74.  New  Haven  Herald  and  New  Haven 
Register,  July  17,  1804,  and  Aug.  21, 
1804. 

75.  Calhoun  to  Jeremiah  Day,  Dec.  2, 
1822.    Calhoun   Papers,   Yale    Uni- 
versity. 

76.  Calhoun     to     Benjamin     Silliman, 
March    20,    1818.    Calhoun   Papers, 
Yale  University. 

77.  Calhoun     to     Benjamin     Silliman, 
Aug.  14,  1825.  Calhoun  Papers,  Yale 
University. 

78.  Calhoun   to   D.   Daggett,   Dec.    14, 
1826.    Calhoun    Papers,   Yale    Uni- 
versity. 


HI.    YEARS  OP  GROWTH 


1.  Calhoun  to  Alexander  Noble,  Oct.  15, 
1804,  Correspondence,  93-94. 

2.  James  Parton,  Famous  Americans  of 
Recent  Times,  56. 

3.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride  Colhoun: 
Sept.  26,  Aug.  12,  and  Dec.  23,  1805, 
Correspondence,  95-96,  98,  101. 

4.  Parton,  56. 

5.  William  P.  Starke,  'Accounts  of  Cal- 
houn's  Early  Life,'  Correspondence, 
83. 

6.  South  Carolina  tradition. 

7.  Calhoun  to   Mrs.  Floride   Colhoun, 
June  12,  1810,  and  Oct.  1,  1809,  Cor- 
respondence, 115,  113. 

8.  Original  in  Calhoun  Papers  at  Cal- 
houn College,  Yale  University. 

9.  Anecdote  quoted  in  Starke,  84 

10.  John  Quincy  Adams,  Diary,  IV,  70; 
also    Calhoun    to    James    Monroe, 
June    24,     1820.    Calhoun    Papers, 
Library  of  Congress. 

11.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride   Colhoun, 
July  22,  1805,  Correspondence,  94- 
95. 

12.  Descriptions  drawn  from  Memories 
of  Horace  Bushnett,  passim;  Personal 
Memories  of  E.  D.  Mansfield,  122; 
S.  G.  Goodrich,  Recollections  of  a 
Lifetime,    I,    126-127;    Thomas    L. 
Nichols,   Forty    Years   of  American 
Life,  I,  23. 

13.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride   Colhoun, 
July  22,  1805,  Correspondence,  95. 


14.  Frederick  Marryat,  Diary  in  Amer- 
ica, 68. 

15.  Goodrich,    I,    74,    78-79,    81,    83; 
Nichols,  I,  27. 

16.  This    description    is    drawn     from 
Samuel   H.   Fisher's   The   Litchfield 
Law  School,  passim. 

17.  Calhoun  to   Mrs.   Floride   Colhoun, 
July  22,  1805,  Correspondence,  94- 
95. 

18.  Lyman   Beecher,  Autobiography,   I, 
224. 

19.  Ibid.,  124,  ff. 

20.  Goodrich,  I,  117. 

21.  Calhoun  to   Mrs.  Floride   Colhoun, 
Dec.  23,  1805,  Correspondence,  101. 

22.  Calhoun  to   Mrs.   Floride   Colhoun, 
Sept.  9,  1805,  and  March  3,  1806, 
Correspondence,  97  and  103. 

23.  Marryat,  72. 

24.  The  story  of  this  friendship,  handed 
down  in  the  annals  of  the  Calhoun 
family  of  Connecticut,  was  received 
from  Miss  Lilian  Gold,  Flint,  Michi- 
gan,   great-granddaughter    of     Dr. 
John  Calhoun  of  Cornwall. 

25.  Nichols,   I,    60;    II,    125.   See   also 
Marryat's  description  of  white  slave 
auctions  in  1789,  88. 

26.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride  Colhoun, 
Aug.   12,   1805,  and   July   3,    1806, 
Correspondence,  95-96,  106. 

27.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.   Floride   Colhoun, 
Sept.  9,  1805,  and  to  Andrew  Pick- 


538 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  m  AND  iv 


ens,  Nov.  24,  1805,  Correspondence, 
97  and  100. 

28.  J.  G.  Swift,  Measures,  Not  Men,  6. 

29.  Calhoun  to   Mrs.   Flo  ride   Colhoun, 
June  2,  1806,  Correspondence,  105. 

30.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride   Colhoun, 
Sept.  11,  1806,  Correspondence,  107. 

31.  Amos   Kendall,   Autobiography,   22, 
Goodrich,  I,  86,  133;  and  Nichols, 
I,  23,  18. 

32.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride  Colhoun, 
Jan.  19,  1806,  Correspondence,  102; 
and  Calhoun  to  H.  Seymour,  June  2, 
1822,   Calhoun   Papers,   Library   of 
Congress. 

33.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride  Colhoun, 
Aug.   12,  1805,  Correspondence,  96. 

34.  Harriet  Martineau,  A  Retrospect  of 
Western  Travel,  I,  227-228. 


35.  Peter  Neilson,  RecoUections,  253. 

36.  Mrs.  St.  Julien  Havenel,  Charleston: 
The  Place  and  the  People,  379. 

37.  Basil  Hall,  Travels  in  North  Amer- 
ica, II,  191. 

38.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride   Colhoun, 
Dec.  22,  1806,  Correspondence,  108. 

39.  These  quotations  are  taken  at  ran- 
dom from  issues  of  the  South  Caro- 
lina Gazette  through  the  years  1806, 
1807. 

40.  Gerald  Johnson,  Andrew   Jackson: 
A  Portrait  in  Homespun,  48.    (Col- 
lege Caravan  edition.) 

41.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride  Colhoun, 
undated,  1807,  hi   Calhoun  Papers, 
Clemson  College,  South  Carolina. 

42.  Calhoun  to   Mrs.  Floride   Colhoun, 
Dec.  22,  1806,  Correspondence,  108. 


IV.    THE  BIRTH  OF  A  PATRIOT 


1.  William  P.  Starke,  'Account  of  Cal- 
houn's  Early  Life,'  Correspondence, 
85. 

2.  Ben  Robertson,  Red  Hitts  and  Cot- 
ton, 1. 

3.  Starke,  85. 

4.  James  Parton,  Famous  Americans  of 
Recent  Times,  124. 

5.  Anecdote  quoted  in  William  Meigs, 
The  Life  of  John  Caldwett  Calhoun, 
1,47. 

6.  J.  Belton  O'Neall,  The  Bench  and 
Bar  of  South   Carolina,  I;   Bowie 
quoted,  283-284. 

7.  Joseph    Rogers,    The    True    Henry 
Clay,  36. 

8.  Calhoun  to   Mrs.  Floride   Colhoun, 
April  6,  1809,  Correspondence,  110. 

9.  See  J.  Belton  O'Neall,  The  Annals  of 
Newberry,   19-20;    The  Bench  and 
Bar,  96;  Lucius  Little,  Ben  Hardin, 
32-34;  Frederick  Marryat,  Diary  in 
America,     232;     Mrs.     Basil    Hall, 
quoted  in   Three  Englishwomen  in 
America,  ed.  by  Una  Pope-Hennes- 
sey, 236;  W.  H.  Sparks,  Old  Times  in 
Georgia,  482. 

10.  Anecdote    quoted    in    Charles    M. 
Wiltse's  John  C.  Calhoun,  National- 
ist, 43. 

11.  See  William  E.  Barton,  The  Lineage 
of  Lincoln,  297-298. 

12.  Samuel   G.   Goodrich,   Recollections 

of  a  Lifetime,  I,  182. 

13.  Ibid.,  I,  86-87. 

14.  The    figure    is    usually    given    as 
twelve,   but   Luke   Hanks   died  in 
1787,   and   in   the    first   census   at 


'Ninety-Six,'  in  1790,  Mrs.  Ann 
Blanks  was  named  as  head  of  a 
family  of  five  males  and  six  females. 
It  has  been  said  that  in  any  group  of 
half  a  dozen  Hanks  girls,  at  least 
one  would  be  named  Nancy.  Al- 
though Nancy  Hanks  of  Kentucky 
and  Nancy  Hanks  of  Anderson 
County,  South  Carolina,  were  prob- 
ably connected,  the  exact  relation- 
ship would  be  too  involved  to  trace. 
See  Barton,  The  Lineage  of  Lincoln, 
297-298. 

15.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride  Colhoun, 
Oct.  1,  1807,  Correspondence,  109. 

16.  Columbia    (S.C.)    State,    July    12, 

1896. 

17.  G.    W.    Symonds,    'When    Calhoun 
Went  A-Wooing,'  The  Ladies9  Home 
Journal,  May,  1901. 

18.  Starke,  86;  see  also  Fletcher  Pratt, 
The  Heroic  Years,  183. 

19.  Calhoun  to   Miss  Floride   Colhoun, 
Sept.  28,  1810,  Correspondence,  122. 

20.  William   E.   Barton,   The  Paternity 
of  Abraham  Lincoln,  266. 

21.  Mary   Bates,   The  Private   Life   of 
John  C.  Calhoun,  30-31. 

22.  Barton,  The  Paternity  of  Abraham 
Lincoln,  137. 

23.  Gamaliel   Bradford,  As  God  Made 
Them,  110. 

24.  Manuscript  reminiscences  of  James 
Edward   Colhoun,  Calhoun  Papers, 
Clemson  College. 

25.  Judgment    Roll,    No.    286    in    the 
Judge  of  Probate's   office   for   An- 
derson    County,     South     Carolina. 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  iv  AND  v 


539 


'State  of  South  Carolina.  County  of 
Anderson  .  .  .  application  for  par- 
tition. .  .  .  The  land  of  Luke  Hanks, 
deed.'  See  also,  Barton,  The  Pa- 
ternity of  Abraham  Lincoln,  222- 
224. 

26.  LeConte     quoted     in     Claude     G. 
Bowers,  The  Tragic  Era,  348. 

27.  Charleston  City  Gazette  and  Daily 
Advertiser,  Jan.  4,  1809. 

28.  Benjamin  F.  Perry,  Reminiscences  of 
Public  Men,  90-91. 

29.  Ibia.,  92. 

30.  Don  C.  Seitz,  The  Also-Rans,  55. 

31.  Ibid. 

32.  Manuscript    records    of    the    South 
Carolina  State  Legislature  in  State 
Archives   Building,   South    Carolina 


Historical    Commission,   entries    for 
Dec.  5,  1809,  and  Dec.  12,  1809. 

33.  Huger  quoted  in  Benjamin  F.  Perry, 
Reminiscences  of  Public  Men,  92. 

34.  House     Roll,    Legislative    Records, 
Nov.  8,  1809.- 

35.  'Rules'   printed  in  Legislative  Rec- 
ords, Nov.  28,  1808. 

36.  Legislative  Records,  Dec.  5,  1804. 

37.  Parton,  125;  Starke,  87. 

38.  David  D.  Wallace,  History  of  South 
Carolina,  II,  375. 

39.  Calhoun,  'Discourse  on  the  Consti- 
tution,' Works  of  John  C.  Calhoun, 
Richard  K.  Gralle",  ed.,  I,  400-406. 

40.  Herbert  Agar,  The  Pursuit  of  Happi- 
ness, 193. 


V.     OP  COURTS  AND  COURTING 


1.  Frederick  Marry  at,  Diary  in  Amer- 
ica, 232 ;  W.  H.  Sparks,  Old  Times  in 
Georgia,  482. 

2.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride   Colhoun, 
April  6,  1809,  Correspondence,  110. 

3.  Idem,  June  25,   1809,   Correspond- 
ence, 111. 

4.  So  the  tradition  is  handed  down  in 
the  Calhoun  family.  A  written  ac- 
count can  be  found  in  G.  W.  Sy- 
monds's     article,     'When     Calhoun 
Went    A-Wooing'    hi    The    Ladies9 
Home  Journal,  May,  1901. 

5.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride   Colhoun, 
June  25,  1809,  Correspondence,  111. 

6.  R.  D.  French,  Memorial  Quadrangle, 
158-159. 

7.  Ibid.,  159. 

8.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride   Colhoun, 
July  18,  1809,  Correspondence,  112. 

9.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride   Colhoun, 
Jan.  20,  1810,  Correspondence,  114. 

10.  William  P.  Starke,  'Account  of  Cal- 
houn's  Early  Life,'  Correspondence, 
86. 

11.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.   Floride   Colhoun, 
Jan.  20,  1810,  Correspondence,  114. 

12.  Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,  Charleston, 
the  Place  and  the  People,  427-429. 

13.  Caroline  Howard  Oilman,  Recollec- 
tions of  a  Southern  Matron,  297. 

14.  Ibid. 

15.  Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,  427-429. 

16.  Basil  Hall,  Travels  in  North  Amer- 
ica, H,  190-191. 

17.  Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,  396. 

18.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.   Floride   Colhoun, 
June  12,  1810,  Correspondence,  114- 
115. 


19.  Idem,  115. 

20.  Idem,  July  27,  1812,  Correspondence, 
118. 

21.  E.  P.  Poe,  sketch  of  Calhoun  in  clip- 
ping   from    Anderson    (S.C.)     Ob- 
server; in  Clemson  College  Library. 

22.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride  ColhounT 
Nov.     23,      1812,     Correspondence, 
125. 

23.  Idem,  June   12,    1810,   Correspond- 
ence, 115. 

24.  Idem,  July  27,  1810,  Correspondence, 
117. 

25.  Idem,  Sept.  7,  1810,  Correspondence, 
119. 

26.  Idem,  July  18,  1810,  Correspondence, 
117. 

27.  Starke,  88. 

28.  Calhoun  to   Mrs.  Floride  Colhoun, 
July  27,  1810,  Correspondence,  117— 
118. 

29.  Calhoun  to  Miss  Floride  Colhoun, 
Sept.  28,  1810,  Correspondence,  121- 
122. 

30.  Calhoun,  Life,  8. 

31.  Calhoun  to   Miss  Floride  Colhoun, 
Sept.  28,  1812,  Correspondence,  121- 
122. 

32.  This  ending  is  quoted  from  the  Sy- 
monds  article  in  The  Ladies9  Home 
Journal  for  May,  1901.  He  gives  no 
authority,  and  it  is  not  included  hi 
the  copy  in  the  Starke  sketch  from 
which  E.  P.  Jameson  took  his  copy. 
However,    the    original    has    disap- 
peared. 

33.  Clothes  for  a  'Pic-Nic'  are  described 
in  the   Charleston  Courier,  Jan.   1, 
1807. 


540 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  v  AND  vi 


34.  A  typical  outing  on  the  Cooper  is 
described  by  Caroline  Howard  Gil- 
man,  257-258. 

35.  Calhoun  to  Miss  Floride   Colhoun, 
Sept.  28,  1810,  Correspondence,  122. 

36.  Starke,  89. 

37.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride  Colhoun, 
Sept.  13,  1810,  Correspondence,  120. 

38.  Starke,  89. 

39.  Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,  390. 

40.  Caroline  Howard  Oilman,  164. 

41.  Ibid.,  165-168. 


42.  Charleston    Courier,    Jan.    3,    and 
Jan.  14,  1807. 

43.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride   Colhoun, 
Sept.  7,  1810,  Correspondence,  119. 

44.  Charleston  Courier,  Jan.  7,  1807. 

45.  Calhoun  to   Mrs.  Floride   Colhoun, 
May  8,  1811,  Correspondence,  122- 
123. 

46.  Calhoun  to   Miss  Floride   Colhoun, 
Sept.  28,  1811,  Correspondence,  121- 
122. 


VI.    THE  SECOND  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION 


1.  Bernard  Mayo,  Henry  Clay:  Spokes-       24. 
man  for  the  New  West,  402. 

2.  Survivor  of  Fort  Madison  quoted  in        25. 
Lexington  (Ky.)  Reporter,  April  4, 

1812.  26. 

3.  Gaillard  Hunt,  John  C.  Calhoun,  35. 

4.  Joseph    Rogers,    The    True    Henry 
Clay,  157.  27. 

5.  Calhoun      to      James      MacBride, 
Sept.    13,    1811,    MacBride    Papers, 
Library  of  Congress.  28. 

6.  Diary  of  William  Dunlap,  Feb.  19,        29. 
1805,  II,  386.  30. 

7.  Ibid.,  Feb.  28. 

8.  Amos  Kendall,  Autobiography,  300. 

9.  Benjamin  F.  Perry,  Reminiscences  of        31. 
Public  Men,  51-53.  32. 

10.  Annals  of  Congress,  12th  Congress, 

1st  Session,  332-333.  33. 

11.  Newburyport  (Mass.)  Herald,  Nov. 

6,  1811.  34. 

12.  Calhoun,  Life,  8. 

13.  Calhoun  to  James   MacBride,   Feb. 
16,  1812,  MacBride  Papers,  Library 

of  Congress.  35. 

14.  Henry  Adams,  History  of  the  United 
States,  VI,  125-126.  36. 

15.  Calhoun,  Report  of  Nov.  29,  1811,       37. 
Works,  V,  1-6,  passim.  38. 

16.  National     Intelligencer,     Nov.     28,        39. 
Dec.  5,  et  seq.,  1811. 

17.  Philadelphia  Aurora,  December   14, 
1811. 

18.  National  Intelligencer,  Nov.  28,  Dec. 

5,  1811.  40. 

19.  Newburyport  (Mass.)  Herald,  May        41. 
29,  1812. 

20.  William  Bruce,  John  Randolph   of       42. 
Roanoke,  I,  381,  417.  43. 

21.  Cited  in  Richmond   Enquirer,   De- 
cember 21,  1811;   quoted  in  Hart- 
ford C  our  ant.  44. 

22.  Annals  of  Congress,  12th  Congress, 
1st  Session,  422,  441,  525. 

23.  Calhoun,  Works,  II,  19.  45. 


William  C.  Preston,  Reminiscences, 
7-9. 

Newburyport  (Mass.)  Herald,  Nov. 
11,  1811. 

Calhoun  to  James  MacBride,  April 
18,  1812,  MacBride  Papers,  Library 
of  Congress. 

Excerpts  quoted  in  Hugh   Garland, 
Life  of  John  Randolph,  I,  288-297, 
passim  (13th  edition). 
Ibid.,  I,  296. 
Ibid.,  I,  306. 

John  S.  Jenkins,  Life  of  John  Cold- 
well  Calhoun,  47;  Calhoun,  Works, 
II,  1-13. 

Richmond  Enquirer,  Dec.  24,  1811. 
Newburyport  (Mass.)  Herald,  Nov. 
8,  1811. 

James  Parton,  Famous  Americans  of 
Recent  Times,  127. 
Augustus  J.  Foster  Papers,  Library 
of  Congress;  MS.  Diary,  I,  Feb.  12, 
1812,  and  April  15,  1812;  also  MS. 
Notes,  I,  30-31. 

Calhoun  to   Mrs.  Floride   Colhoun, 
Dec.  21,  1811,  Correspondence,  124. 
Foster,  MS.  Diary,  I,  Dec.  14,  1811. 
Ibid.,  April  5,  1812. 
Ibid.,  April  15,  1812. 
Annals,  12th  Congress,   1st  Session, 
848-850;  see  also  J.  A.  Bayard  to 
A.  Bayard,  Jan.  25,  1812,  in  Annual 
Report  of  the  American  Historical 
Association  (1913),  189. 
Mayo,  431-432. 

E.  P.  Thomas,  ed.,  The  Carolina 
Tribute  to  Calhoun,  389. 
Foster,  MS.  Diary,  I,  May  8,  1812. 
James  Madison  to  Thomas  Jefferson, 
April  3,  1812,  in  Writings  of  James 
Madison,  H,  531. 

Calhoun  to  James  MacBride,  April 
18,  1812,  MacBride  Papers,  Library 
of  Congress. 
Sidney  H.  Gay,  James  Madison,  307. 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  vi  AND  vn 


541 


46.  Foster,  MS.  Diary,  I,  May  19,  May 
22,  May  23,  1812;  also  MS.  Notes, 
I,  156. 

47.  Newburyport  (Mass.)  Herald,  May 
29,  1812. 

48.  Foster,  MS.  Diary,  I,  June  1,  1812. 


49.  Henry  Adams,  History,  VI,  125-126. 

50.  Foster,  MS.  Diary,  I,  June  7,  1812. 

51.  Ibid.,  June  17,  1812. 

52.  Henry  Adams,  History,  VI,  125  ff. 

53.  Foster,  MS.  Notes,  I,  168. 


VIL    YOUNG  HERCULES 


1.  Marquis   James,    The   Raven,   Sam 
Houston,  27,  28. 

2.  James  Parton,  Life  of  Andrew  Jack- 
son, I,  414-418. 

3.  Gerald  Johnson,  Andrew  Jackson:  A 
Portrait  in  Homespun  (College  Cara- 
van Edition),  86. 

4.  Quoted  in  Correspondence   of  An- 
drew Jackson,  John  S.  Bassett,  ed., 
I,  220-223. 

5.  Benjamin  F.  Perry,  Reminiscences  of 
Public  Men,  53. 

6.  Calhoun  to  James  MacBride,  Dec. 
15,  1812.  MacBride  Papers,  Library 
of  Congress. 

7.  Annals  of  Congress,  12th  Congress, 
1st  Session,  139. 

8.  Claude  M.  Fuess,  Daniel  Webster,  I, 
138,  123. 

9.  Ibid.,  I,  155. 

10.  Samuel  Lyman,  Daniel  Webster,  I, 
51. 

11.  Fuess,    I,    160. 

12.  Calhoun,  'Speech  on  the  Army  Bill,' 
Jan.  14,  1813,  Works,  II,  43. 

13.  The  descriptions  of  life  in  Washing- 
ton are  drawn  from  the  Letters  of 
Mary  Boardman  Crowninshield,  21, 
41;  the  correspondence  of  William 
Lowndes  in  the  Lowndes  Papers,  Li- 
brary of  Congress;  and  in  Mrs.  St. 
Julien    Haveners    Life    of    WiUiam 
Lowndes,  passim;  Foster,  MS.  Diary, 
I,  12 ;  and  the  National  Intelligencer, 
Dec.  13,  1813. 

14.  National     Intelligencer,     Aug.     26, 
1813 ;  Foster,  MS.  Notes,  I,  11. 

15.  Fletcher  Pratt,   The   Heroic   Years, 
181-182. 

16.  Amos  Kendall,  Autobiography,  95. 

17.  Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,  108. 

18.  Quoted  hi  Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel, 
86. 

19.  Commonplace     Book     of     William 
Lowndes,  Lowndes  Papers,  Library 
of  Congress. 

20.  Quoted  in  Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel, 
184. 

21.  'Extract  of  speech  by  Mr.  Tod  of 
Massachusetts,'  in  Lowndes  Papers. 


22.  Undated  news  clipping  from  South- 
ern  Patriot    and    Commercial    Ad- 
vertiser in  Lowndes  Papers. 

23.  Ibid. 

24.  Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,  87. 

25.  Calhoun  to  James  MacBride,  Feb. 
2,  1813.  MacBride  Papers,  Library 
of  Congress. 

26.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  John  C.  Calhoun, 
March  1,  1812,  Correspondence,  125. 

27.  Idem,  Feb.  7,  1814,  Correspondence, 
126. 

28.  Idem,  Nov.  23,   1812,  and  Feb.  7, 
1814,  Correspondence,  125,  126. 

29.  Calhoun,    'Speech    on     Merchants' 
Bonds,'  Dec.  4,  1812,  Works,  II,  37. 

30.  National  Intelligencer,  Aug.  23,  1814; 
Winder's  Narrative,  American  State 
Papers,  Military  Affairs  Manuscript 
Division,  I,  552-553. 

31.  Dolly  Madison  Papers,  Library  of 
Congress,  notations  for  Aug.  23  and 
Aug.  24,  1814. 

32.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  First  Forty 
Years  of  Washington  Society,   100, 
114. 

33.  Dolly  Madison  Papers,  Aug.  23,  and 
Aug.  24,  1814. 

34.  Sarah  A.  Emery,  Three  Generations, 
212. 

35.  Eye-witness  accounts  of  the  invasion 
of  Washington  are  in  the  National 
Intelligencer,  Aug.  30,  Sept.  1,  2,  8, 
and  15,  1814.  See  quotation  on  'the 
Cossacks'  in  a  London  newspaper, 
cited  in  Arthur  Stryon's  The  Cast- 
iron  Man:  John  C.  Calhoun  and 
American    Democracy,    76-77;    also 
Stilson  Hutchins  Moore  and  Joseph 
West  Smith,  The  National  Capital, 
96,  99-100. 

36.  Sarah  Emery,  213-214. 

37.  National  Intelligencer,  Sept.  2,  1814. 

38.  Ibid.;    see    also    Margaret    Bayard 
Smith,  112. 

39.  National  Intelligencer,  Oct.  19;  also 
Petersburg    (Va.)    Courier,  Oct.  25, 
1814. 

40.  J.  G.  Swift,  Measures,  Not  Men,  15. 


542 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  vn  AND  vm 


41.  George   T.   Curtis,  Life   of  Darnel 
Webster,  I,  43.  The  anecdote  is  at- 
tributed   to    George    Ticknor,   who 
heard  it  from  Webster,  himself. 

42.  Calhoun,  'Speech  on  Loan  Bill/  Feb. 
25,  1814,  Works,  II,  90-91,  55. 

43.  Fuess,    I,    168;    The    Writings   and 
Speeches   of  Daniel   Webster    (Na- 
tional Edition),  XIV,  69. 

44.  Fuess,  I,  168. 

45.  James  Madison,  quoted  hi  J.  P.  Ken- 
nedy, Memoir  of  William  Wirt,  I, 
339;  Henry  Adams,  History,  VIET, 
231. 

46.  Calhoun,  'Speech  on  the  Loan  Bill,' 


Feb.  25,  1814,  Works,  II,  94,  95,  98, 
79. 

47.  Idem,  116. 

48.  Idem,  91,  102,  89. 

49.  Idem,  91. 

50.  Calhoun  to  James  MacBride,  Feb. 
12,  1815.  MacBride  Papers,  Library 
of  Congress. 

51.  Idem,  Feb.  12,  1815. 

52.  Samuel   G.   Goodrich,   Recollections 
of  a  Lifetime,  I,  22-23. 

53.  Foster,  MS.  Notes,  II,  148-149;  160- 
162 ;  see  also  MS.  Diary,  I,  April  20, 
1812;  Dec.  22,  1811;  April  8,  1812; 
and  April  17,  1812. 


VUL    A  BROADENING  UNION 


1.  Thomas  L.  Nichols,  Forty  Years  of        23. 
American  Life,  I,  363;  Albert  Gal-        24. 
latin   to    Matthew    Lyon,    May    7,        25. 
1816,  in  Henry  Adams,  Life  of  Al- 
bert Gallatin,  560.  26. 

2.  Calhoun,  Works,  II,  134.  27. 

3.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride  Colhoun, 
April  9,  1815,  Correspondence,  128-        28. 
129. 

4.  Idem.  29. 

5.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  John  C.  Calhoun, 
Correspondence,  129.  30. 

6.  Vernon   Parrington,   The  Romantic 
Revolution  in  America,  v.  31. 

7.  Charles  A.  Beard,  Economic  Origins        32. 
of  Jefiersonian  Democracy,  12,  18. 

8.  James  Parton,  Famous  Americans  of 
Recent  Times,  128.  33. 

9.  Calhoun,  Speech  on  'The  Loan  Bill,' 

Feb.  25,  1814,  Works,  H,  101.  34. 

10.  Calhoun,     speech     on     'Merchants' 
Bonds,'  Dec.  4,  1812,  Works,  II,  37. 

11.  Christopher    Hollis,    The    American        35. 
Heresy,  87. 

12.  William  E.  Dodd,  Statesmen  of  the 
Old  South,  142. 

13.  Hollis,  87,  88.  36. 

14.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  First  Forty 
Years  of  Washington  Society,  96. 

15.  Letters  of  Mary  Boardman  Crown-       37. 
inshield,  57. 

16.  Ibid.,  15,  16,  23,  35,  51.  38. 

17.  William  C.  Preston,  Reminiscences, 

5-6.  39. 

18.  Anne  H.  Wharton,  Social  Life  in  the 
Early  Republic,  38.  40. 

19.  Amos  Kendall,  Autobiography,  300. 

20.  Preston,  7-8.  41. 

21.  Josiah  Quincy,  Figures  of  the  Past,       42. 
210.  43. 

22.  Ben:  Perley  Poore,  Reminiscences,  I, 
68-69. 


Ibid.,  54. 
Parrington,  141. 

E.  F.  EUet,  Court  Circles  of  the  Re- 
public, 100. 
Parton,  126. 

Theodore  D.  Jervey,  Robert  Young 
Hayne  and  His  Times,  51. 
Gerald  Johnson,  John  Randolph  of 
Roanoke,  186. 

Walter  Miller,  hi  The  Green  Bag, 
XI,  276. 

Samuel   G.   Goodrich,  Recollections 
of  a  Lifetime,  H,  407. 
Parton,  130. 

Correspondent  for  Charleston  Cour- 
ier, quoted  hi  New  York  Evening 
Post,  March  12,  1814. 
Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,  The  Life 
and  Times  of  William  Lowndes,  230. 
Calhoun,   speech   on   'The   Military 
Peace  Establishment,'  Feb.  27,  1815, 
Works,  H,  117-123. 
Calhoun,    speech    on    'The    Treaty- 
Making  Power,'  Jan.  4,  1816,  quoted 
hi  John  S.  Jenkins,  Life  of  John 
Caldwell  Calhoun,  63,  75. 
Calhoun,  speech  on  "Hie  Direct  Tax,' 
Jan.  31,    1816,  quoted  in   Jenkins, 
104-117. 

Calhoun,    address    on    'Commercial 
Treaty,'  quoted  in  Jenkins,  65-73. 
Calhoun,    address    on    'The    Direct 
Tax,'  April  4,  1816,  Works,  II,  152. 
Calhoun,  speech  on  'The  Bank  Bill,' 
Feb.  26,  1816,  Works,  II,  153-162. 
Claude  M.  Fuess,  Daniel  Webster,  I, 
184-185. 

Calhoun,  Life,  19. 
Jenkins,  118. 

Calhoun,  speech  on  "The  New  Tariff 
Act,'  April  6,  1816,  Works,  II,  163- 
173. 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  vm  AKD  rx 


543 


44.  Thomas  Jefferson  to  Benjamin  Aus- 
tin,   Jan.    9,    1816,    Jefferson    Cor- 
respondence, X,  10. 

45.  Calhoun,  Works,  II,  160. 

46.  Calhoun,  speech  on  'The  Bonus  Bill,' 
Feb.  4,  1817,  Works,  II,  186-196. 

47.  Jenkins,  138. 

48.  Benjamin  F.  Perry,  Reminiscences  of 
Public  Men,  55. 

49.  Calhoun,  Life,  23. 

50.  Jenkins,  134-135. 


51.  Calhoun  to  Duff  Green,  May,  1839, 
Correspondence,  429. 

52.  Calhoun,  Life,  23. 

53.  Calhoun,  speech  on  'The  Compensa- 
tion Bill,'  Jan.  17,  1817,  Works,  II, 
174-185. 

54.  Jenkins,  136. 

55.  New  York  Evening  Post,  Dec.  28, 
Dec.  31,  1813. 

56.  Calhoun,  Life,  23. 

57.  Jenkins,  136. 


IX.    MR.  SECRETARY  OF  WAR 


1.  Niks'  Weekly  Register,   March   27, 
1824. 

2.  Calhoun  to  James  Monroe,  Dec.  9, 

1827,  Correspondence,  252.  22. 

3.  Calhoun,    Life,    24,    72;    Mrs.    St. 
Julien  Ravenel,  The  Life  of  William 
Lowndes,  230;  John  S.  Jenkins,  The 

Life  of  John  CaldweU  Calhoun,  141-  23. 
142.  24. 

4.  John  Quincy  Adams,  Diary,  IV,  136. 

5.  Ibid.,  IV,  144. 

6.  Calhoun  to  William  F.  Buyers  (first       25. 
official  letter),   Dec.   8,    1817,   War 
Office,  Military  Book,  DC,  423,  Na-        26. 
tional  Archives. 

7.  Calhoun  to  Jacob  Brown,  July  29, 
1818,  Brown  Papers,  Library  of  Con- 
gress. 

8.  Calhoun,  Life,  25.  .        27. 

9.  Ibid.,  25;  Jenkins,  142. 

10.  Calhoun  to  Jacob  Brown,  Nov.  3, 

1821,  Brown  Papers,  Library  of  28. 
Congress. 

11.  Calhoun  to  Sylvanus  Thayer,  March        29. 
7,  1818,  War  Office,  Military  Book,        30. 
DC  31. 

12.  James   Parton,    Famous   Americans       32. 
of  Recent  Times,  139. 

13.  Mary   Bates,   The  Private  Life   of 
John  C,  Calhoun,  30-31.  33. 

14.  Calhoun,  Life,  27. 

15.  J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  V,  236.  34. 

16.  Niles9  Weekly  Register,  XXII,  251- 

263,  279-282;  ibid.,  XXXI,  292,  35. 
293-302,  305,  394-407;  ibid.,  36. 
XXXH,  18.  37. 

17.  Theodore  D.  Jervey,  Robert  Young 
Hayne  and  His  Times,  51-52.  38. 

18.  Marquis  James,  The  Raven,  44.  39. 

19.  J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  V,  527. 

20.  Andrew  Jackson  to  James  Monroe, 

Jan.  6,  1818,  quoted  in  James  Par-        40. 

ton,   Life   of  Andrew   Jackson,   II, 

433.  41. 

21.  James  Monroe  to  Calhoun,  May,  19,       42. 
1830,    quoted    in    Parton,    Andrew       43. 


Jackson,  II,  435.  See  also  letter  of 
Calhoun  to  Monroe,  May  26,  1830, 
Correspondence,  273. 
Calhoun  to  Andrew  Jackson,  Dec. 
26,  1817,  Orders  in  Seminple  War, 
American  State  Papers,  Military  Af- 
fairs, I,  690. 

J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  IV,  108,  113. 
Calhoun  to   Andrew  Jackson,   May 
28,    1830,    Niks'    Weekly    Register, 
XL,  21. 

J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  IV,  107,  108, 
113. 

Narrative  of  William  B.  Lewis  writ- 
ten to  James  Parton,  Oct.  25,  18S9, 
and  quoted  in  Parton,  Andrew  Jack- 
son, III,  312.  See  also  J.  Q.  Adams, 
Diary,  IV,  366-371. 
Calhoun  to  Andrew  Jackson,  Sept. 
8,  1818,  in  War  Office,  Military 
Book,  DC. 

Samuel   G.    Goodrich,   Recollections 
of  a  Lifetime,  I,  401-402. 
J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  IV,  281. 
Ibid.,  TV,  315. 

Parton,  Andrew  Jackson,  II,  345. 
Bennett  Champ  Clark,  John  Quincy 
Adams:   Old  Man  Eloquent,   anec- 
dote cited,  178. 

J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  IV,   144-145, 
162,  221;  V,  374. 

John  P.  Kennedy,  Memoir  of  Wil- 
liam Wirt,  II,  185. 
J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  IV,  276. 
Ibid.,  V,  172,  70-71,  275. 
Calhoun  to  Henry  S.  Dearborn,  June 
8,  1824,  Correspondence,  218-219. 
J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  V,  279. 
Calhoun,  report  on  'The  Reduction 
of  the  Army/  Dec.  12,  1820,  Works, 
V,  93. 

Idem,  Dec.  14,  1818,  Works,  V,  25- 
40,  Passim. 
Calhoun,  Life,  24-25. 
Calhoun,  Works,  V,  34,  84-85,  88. 
Gaillard  Hunt,  John  C.  Calhoun,  45. 


544 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  ix  AND  x 


44.  See  report  on  'The  Expenses  of  the       56. 
Army  and  Military  Academy,'  March 

5,   1822,   Calhoun,  Works,  V,  115-        57. 
122;  and  report  on  'The  Reduction 
of  the  Army/  Dec.  12,  1820,  ibid.,  V, 
86-87.  58. 

45.  Calhoun,  report  on  'The  Reduction        59. 
of  the  Army,'  Dec.  14,  1818,  Works, 

V,  35-37.  60. 

46.  Calhoun  to  Jacob  Brown,  Nov.  12, 
1820,  Brown  Papers,  Library  of  Con- 
gress. 61. 

47.  Idem.  62. 

48.  Calhoun,   report  on   cThe   Military 
Academy  at  West  Point,'  Feb.  25, 
1820,  Works,  V,  72-80,  passim.  See 
also   the  report  on  *Aji  Additional 
Military  Academy/  Jan.  29,   1819, 
ibid.,  V,  54-57.  63. 

49.  Calhoun  to  Sylvanus  Thayer,  Jan. 
15,  1819,  War  Office,  Military  Book, 

DC.  64. 

50.  Calhoun  to  Jacob  Thompson,  Nov. 
10,  1824,  in  Brown  Papers,  Library 
of  Congress. 

51.  Calhoun  to  Stephen  Cantrell, .  July        65. 
30,  1823,  War  Office,  Military  Book,        66. 
XL    See    also    Calhoun    to    Elbert 
Anderson,  Aug.  12,  1824,  in  Ameri-        67. 
can  State  Papers,  Indian  Affairs,  II,        68. 
No.  12,  National  Archives;  also  Cor- 
respondence, 155,  159. 

52.  Christopher   Hollis,    The    American        69. 
Heresy,  89. 

53.  Calhoun,  report  on  'Indian  Trade,' 
Dec.  8,  1818,  Works,  V,  18,  19;  see 
also   ibid.,  V,   139;   and  report   on 
'Civilizing  the  Indians,'  ibid.,  V,  69- 

70.  70. 

54.  Calhoun    to    Henry    Leavenworth,        71. 
December  29,  1819,  Correspondence, 

167.  72. 

55.  J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  VI,  402-403. 


Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,  The  Life  of 
William  Lowndes,  31. 
Calhoun,  report  on  'Roads  and  Ca- 
nals,' Jan.  14,  1819,  Works,  V,  40- 
54. 

Calhoun,  Life,  30. 
National  Intelligencer,  Nov.  20,  23, 

26,  30,  and  Dec.  4,  1819. 
Calhoun  to  John  E.  Colhoun,  Dec. 
12,  1819,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson 
College. 

J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  IV,  495. 
Calhoun  to  John  E.  Colhoun,  Oct. 
23,   1820,  Correspondence,  178-179; 
see  also  to  Micah  Sterling,  July  24, 

1820,  John  Gribbel  Collection,  Phila- 
delphia;   Correspondence,   183,    185, 
187,  201-202,  205,  207,  209,  and  212. 
James  Monroe  to  Calhoun,  Sept.  24, 

1821,  Writings  of  James  Monroe,  VI, 
198. 

J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  IV,  197,  512, 
524;  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  The 
First  Forty  Years  of  Washington 
Society,  171. 

Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  254. 
Ben:  Perley  Poore,  Reminiscences,  I, 
73-74. 

Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  268-269. 
Calhoun  to  John  E.  Colhoun,  July 
23,  1821,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson 
College. 

Margaret    Bayard    Smith,    144-145, 
147,  152 ;  Josephine  Seaton,  William 
Winston  Seaton  of  the  National  In- 
telligencer,    135-136;     William     M. 
Meigs,  The  Life  of  John  Caldwell 
Calhoun,  I,  280. 
Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  149. 
Calhoun  to  John  E.  Colhoun,  May 

27,  1823,  Correspondence,  207. 
Calhoun  to  John  E.  Colhoun,  Dec. 
27,  1821,  Correspondence,  197. 


X.    THE  MASTER  OF  DUMBARTON  OAKS 


1.  Grace  D.  Ecker,  A  Portrait  of  Old 
Georgetown,  249-250. 

2.  Calhoun  to  John  E.  Colhoun,  Sept. 
27,   1821,  Correspondence,  197. 

3.  Calhoun   to   J.   G.   Swift,  May    10, 
1823,  Swift  Correspondence,  T.  R. 
Hay,  ed.,  in  'John  C.  Calhoun  and 
the  Presidential  Campaign  of  1824,' 
American    Historical    Review,    XL, 
Oct.  1934,  and  Jan.  1935,  82-96,  287. 

4.  Calhoun  to  John  E.  Colhoun,  Oct. 
22,  1822,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson 
College. 


5.  Stilson  Hutchins  and  Joseph  Moore, 
The  National  Capital,  317-318. 

6.  Calhoun  to  John  E.  Colhoun,  Nov. 
8,   1818,   Calhoun  Papers,   Clemson 
College. 

7.  Idem,  Sept.   28,   1823,    Correspond- 
ence, 213-214. 

8.  Letters  of  Mary  Boardman  Crownin- 
shield,  25,  35,  21. 

9.  J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  IV,  480-481. 

10.  Ibid.,  V,  466-468,  478. 

11.  Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,   The  Life 
of  William  Lowndes,  227,  230. 


NOTES:  CHAPTER  x 


545 


12.  Southern   Patriot    and   Commercial 
Advertiser,  Feb.  4,  1823. 

13.  William  Lowndes  to  Mrs.  Lowndes, 
Jan.  14,  1821,  Lowndes  Papers,  Li- 
brary of  Congress. 

14.  Thomas  Hart  Benton,  Abridged  De- 
bates, VII,  12. 

15.  Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,  227-230. 

16.  Calhoun  to  John  E.  Colhoun,  Oct. 
23,   1820,   Correspondence,   178-179. 

17.  George  T.  Curtis,  The  Life  of  Daniel 
Webster,  I,  176-177. 

18.  Calhoun  to  John  E.  Colhoun,  Oct. 
23,  1820,  Correspondence,  178. 

19.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  First  Forty 
Years  of  Washington  Society,  163. 

20.  W.  P.  Cresson,  James  Monroe,  453. 

21.  Jefferson  to  Thomas  Leiper,  April 
3,   1824,   The  Writings  of   Thomas 
Jefferson,  Paul  Leicester  Ford,  ed., 
X,  299. 

22.  Jefferson  to  Thomas  Ritchie,  Jan.  7, 
1822,  Writings,  X,  203. 

23.  J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  V,  S8--59. 

24.  Ben:    Perley   Poore,   Reminiscences, 
1,23. 

25.  Gerald    Johnson,    Andrew    Jackson 
(College  Caravan  Edition),  192. 

26.  Daniel  -Webster,  Correspondence,  I, 
216. 

27.  Augustus   C.   Buell,   A   History    of 
Andrew  Jackson,  II,  157. 

28.  Virgil  Maxcy  to  R.  S.  Garnett,  Nov. 
16,  1823,  in  American  Historical  Re- 
view, XII,  599-601. 

29.  Winchester    (Va.)    Republican,  July 
20,  1822. 

30.  Richmond     Enquirer,     quoted     in 
Southern   Patriot    and    Commercial 
Advertiser,  Feb.  4,  1822. 

31.  Washington  Gazette,  July  24,  1822. 

32.  Macon    to    Fisher,   April    23,    1823, 
Fisher  Papers,  University  of  North 
Carolina  Library. 

33.  Washington    Republican,    Sept.    25, 
1822. 

34.  Josephine  Seaton,  William  Winston 
Seaton,  162. 

35.  James  Parton,  Famous  Americans  of 
Recent  Times,  141. 

36.  Boston  Galaxy,  Sept.  26,  1823. 

37.  J.  G.  Swift,  Measures,  Not  Men,  45. 

38.  Ibid. 

39.  'Cassius'  in  Columbia  (S.  C.)  Tele- 
scope, quoted  in  .pamphlet,  An  Ex- 
amination of  Mr.  Calhoun's  Econ- 
omy, Dec.  1823. 

40.  Macon    to    Fisher,   April    23,    1823, 
Fisher  Papers,  University  of  North 
Carolina  Library. 


41.  Calhoun   to   Macon,   March,    1823, 
Fisher  Papers,  University  of  North 
Carolina  Library. 

42.  Idem.  See  also  American  Historical 
Review,  XI,  Oct.  1934.  Calhoun  to- 
Virgil  Maxcy,  April  1,  Aug.  6,  and 
Nov.  2,  1823,  in  Virgil  Maxcy  Pa- 
pers, MSS.  Division,  Library  of  Con- 
gress. 

43.  Washington    Republican,    Nov.    16, 
1822;  J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  V,  238. 

44.  Arthur  Stryon,  The  Cast-Iron  Man,. 
Webster  quoted,  119. 

45.  Calhoun  to  J.   G.  Swift,  April  29y 
1823;   Aug.  24,   1823,  Swift   Corre- 
spondence. 

46.  Calhoun  to  Robert  Garnett,  July  3, 
1824,  Correspondence,  219-223. 

47.  Idem. 

48.  See   Calhoun's  letter  to   Robert  S. 
Garnett,  July  3,  1824,  Correspond- 
ence, 219-223,  passim;  also  Calhoun 
to  J.  G.  Swift,  Aug.  24,  1823,  Swift 
Correspondence. 

49.  Correspondence,  221-222. 

50.  J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  VI,  301 ;  V,  $23- 
524,  452. 

51.  J.  E.  D.  Shipp,  The  Life  and  Times 
of  William  H.  Crawford,  168. 

52.  Randolph,   quoted  hi  Annals,   18th 
Congress,  1st  Session,  1308;  see  also 
Stryon,  91. 

53.  J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  IV,  524. 

54.  Ibid.,  V,  36,  9,  10,  12. 

55.  Ibid.,  VI,  315. 

56.  Calhoun  to  Micah  Sterling,  Jan.  5, 
1824,    Calhoun   Papers,   Library   of 
Congress. 

57.  Calhoun  to  Thomas  Rogers,  June  9, 
1822,   Fisher   Papers,  University   of 
North  Carolina  Library. 

58.  J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  VI,  477. 

59.  Amos  Kendall,  Autobiography,  201. 

60.  Boston  Galaxy,  Jan.  18,  1822. 

61.  Francis  Grund,  Aristocracy  in  Amer- 
ica, II,  178-179. 

62.  J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  V,  238;  Fred- 
erick Marry  at,  Diary  in  America,  I, 
164-167  (British  edition). 

63.  We,  The  People,  Oct.  25,  1828. 

64.  J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  VI,  57;  V,  315, 
515,  and  525;   also  Henry   Adams, 
Albert  Gattatin,  599. 

65.  J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  VI,  42. 

66.  Ibid.,  VI,  46-48. 

67.  Ibid.,  VI,  43,  47,  63. 

68.  Washington    Republican,    Nov.    13, 
1822. 

69.  Ibid.,  Nov.  20,  Nov.  23,  1822. 


546 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  x  AND  xi 


70.  J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  VI,  62.  84. 

71.  Washington    Republican,    Sept.    18, 

1822 ;  J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  VI,  64.  85. 

72.  Claude  G.  Bowers,  Party  Battles  of        86. 
the  Jackson  Period,  107-108,  89-90; 

J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  V,  315-326,  pas-        87. 
sim. 

73.  J.   Q.   Adams,   Diary,   V,   315-326, 
passim.  88. 

74.  Calhoun  to  James  Monroe,  July  26,        89. 
1820,    Calhoun    Papers,   Library    of        90. 
Congress. 

75.  William  H.  Crawford  to  Albert  Gal-        91. 
latin,  May  13,  1822,  in  Henry  Adams*        92. 
Life  of  Albert  Gallatin,  580. 

76.  Cresson,  James  Monroe,  457;  J.  Q. 
Adams,  Diary,  V,  525;  also  Writings        93. 
of  Monroe,  VI,  287.  94. 

77.  E.  F.  Ellet,  Court  Circles  of  the  Re- 
public, 98. 

'78.  Eliza  C.  Carrington  to  Mrs.  James        95. 
McDowell,  Nov.  16,  1824,  Carring- 
ton-McDowell    Papers,    Library    of        96. 
Congress.  97. 

79.  J.  T.  Flexner,  America's  Old  Masters,        98. 
190, 197.  99. 

80.  H.  T.  Tuckerman,  The  Book  of  the 
Artist,  299. 

81.  Ibid.,  62.  100. 

82.  Samuel  Isham,  The  History  of  Amer-      101. 
lean  Painting,  108.  102. 

83.  Shipp,  174. 


J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  V,  272;  VI, 
394-400,  408. 

Niks'  Weekly  Register,  XXV,  405. 
Franklin      Gazette      (Philadelphia) , 
Feb.  19,  1824. 

Calhoun  to  Virgil  Maxcy,  Feb.  27, 
1842,    Virgil    Maxcy    Papers,   MSS. 
Division,  Library  of  Congress. 
Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  164. 
Parton,  140. 

George  P.  Fisher,  The  Life  of  Ben- 
jamin SilUman,  II,  107. 
J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  VI,  279,  273. 
Andrew     Jackson,     Correspondence, 
HI,  355;    Marquis  James,   Andrew 
Jackson,  II,  27. 
Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  185. 
Martin  Van  Buren,  Autobiography, 
150,  J.  C.  Fitzpatrick,  ed.;  Margaret 
Bayard  Smith,  192. 
Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  181 ;  Shipp, 
185. 

Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  186. 
Ibid.,  190-193. 

Washington  Gazette,  Nov.  29,  1825. 
Calhoun  to  Littleton  Tazewell,  July 
1,  1827,  Calhoun  Papers,  Library  of 
Congress. 

J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  VI,  506-507. 
Ibid.,  VI,  506-507. 
National     Intelligencer,     March     5, 
1825. 


XI.    MR.  VICE-PRESIDENT  CALHOTJN 


1.  Calhoun   to   J.   G.   Swift,  Feb.   29, 
1826,   American   Historical   Review, 
XL,  300. 

2.  Nathan    Sargent,    Public   Men    and 
Events,  I,  108. 

3.  Ben:    Perley   Poore,   Reminiscences, 
I,  136-137. 

4.  Josiah  Quincy,  Figures  of  the  Past, 
263. 

5.  Ibid.,  241. 

6.  Benjamin  F.  Perry,  Reminiscences  of 
Public  Men,  241. 

7.  Poore,  I,  203-204. 

8.  Varina  Howell  Davis,  Jefferson  Da- 
vis: A  Memoir,  I,  270;  Perry,  45; 
Charles  Cotesworth  Pinckney,  'Cal- 
houn From  a  Southern  Standpoint,' 
Lippincott's  Magazine,  LXII,  July, 
1898. 

•  9.  Oliver  Dyer,  Great  Senators  of  the 
United  States,  203-207,  passim. 

10.  Harriet    Martineau,    Retrospect    of 
Western  Travel,  I,  165. 

11.  Dyer,  253-254. 

12.  Poore.,  I,  63. 


13.  Perry,  64.* 

14.  Poore,  I,  68-69. 

15.  Quincy,  210-212. 

16.  Poore,  I,  69;  Quincy,  213. 

17.  Norwich  (Conn.)  Courier,  April  19, 
1826. 

18.  Henry   Adams,   John  Randolph    of 
Roanoke     (Standard    Library    Edi- 
tion), 298;  Quincy,  210. 

19.  'Onslow  to  Patrick  Henry,'  Calhoun's 
Works,  VI,  347. 

20.  Norwich  (Conn.)  Courier,  April  19, 
1826. 

21.  Henry  Adams,  John  Randolph,  286; 
Hugh  Garland,  Life  of  John  Ran- 
dolph, H,  267-268. 

22.  Thomas  Hart  Benton,  Thirty  Years3 
View,  I,  473 ;  also  Coalter's  Executor 
vs.    Randolph's    Executor,     Clerk's 
office,    Circuit    Court,    Petersburg, 
Va. 

23.  Idem.  Calhoun  quoted  in  Coalter's 
Executor  vs.   Randolph's   Executor, 
Clerk's  office,  Circuit  Court,  Peters- 
burg, Va. 


OSTOTES:    CHAPTERS  XI  AND  XII 


547 


24.  Norwich  (Conn.)   Courier,  April  19, 
1826. 

25.  Onslow,  In  Reply  to  Patrick  Henry 
(pamphlet),  Washington,  1826. 

26.  Ibid. 

27.  Martin  Van  Buren,  Autobiography, 
209-210. 

28.  Poore,  I,  70. 

29.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride  Colhoun, 
Feb.  14,  1827,  Correspondence,  233- 
235. 

30.  Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Colhoun, 
Feb.  14,  1827,  Correspondence,  239- 
240. 

31.  Nile?  Weekly  Register,  XXII,  251, 
279;   XXXI,    292;   American  State 
Papers,  Military  Affairs,  II,  431-449. 

32.  Calhoun  to  James  Monroe,  Dec.  9, 
1827,  Dec.  22,   1827,  Jan.  3,  1828, 
March  7,  1828,  May  1,  1828,  July  10, 
1828;  Correspondence,  251-253,  254, 
255,  260,  263,  and  266. 

33.  Christopher    Hollis,    The    American 
Heresy,  98. 

34.  Quincy,  213. 

35.  J.  H.  Hammond,  in  The  Carolina 
Tribute  to  Calhoun,  J.  P.  Thomas, 
ed.,  297. 

36.  Ibid.,  297. 

37.  Calhoun,  Works,  II,  109. 

38.  'Calhoun  and  the  Divine  Right  of 
the  Majority,'  Nathaniel  W.  Stephen- 
son,  Scripps  College  Papers,  30,  31. 


39.  Idem. 

40.  Hollis,  84. 

41.  Poore,  I,  136. 

42.  Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Colhoun, 
Aug.  26,  1827,  Correspondence,  247- 
251. 

43.  Calhoun,  Life,  33-34. 

44.  Ibid.,  44. 

45.  Ibid.,  33. 

46.  Ibid.,  32. 

47.  Allan  Nevins,  Ordeal  of  the  Union, 
148-149;     see     also    Henry     Clay's 
speech  on  'The  Abolition  Petitions,' 
Feb.    7,    1839,    in    The    Life    and 
Speeches  of  Henry  Clay,  I,  411-412; 
and    Joseph    Lumpkin    to    Howell 
Cobb,  Jan.  21,  1848,  in  Annual  Re- 
port of  the  American  Historical  Asso- 
ciation, 1911,  294-295.  Dr.  James  A. 
Padgett  of  Washington,  D.  C.,  for- 
merly  of  the   History  Department, 
University   of   North   Carolina,   de- 
clares that  in  1830  there  were  100 
*manumission  societies'  in  North  Car- 
olina alone.  'By  1850  it  was  against 
the  law  to  belong  to  one.' 

48.  Theodore  D.  Jervey,  Robert  Young 
Hayne  and  His  Times,  167. 

49.  Calhoun,  Works,  VI,  31. 

50.  Hollis,  108;  John  P.  Pritchett,  Cal- 
houn and  His  Defense  of  the  South, 
31-32. 

51.  Calhoun,  Works,  II,  626. 


A  UNIONIST  COMES  HOME 


1.  'Old  Pendleton'  in  Charleston  Sun- 
day News,  April  30,  1905. 

2.  Manuscript  records  of  the  Pendleton 
Fanners'  Society,   Clemson   College. 

3.  Walter  Miller,  'Calhoun  as  a  Lawyer 
and  a  Statesman,'  The  Green  Bag, 
XI,  327-328. 

4.  Calhoun  to  Christopher  Van  Deven- 
ter,  July  23,  1827,  Correspondence, 
246. 

5.  Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Colhoun, 
Dec.  24,  1826,  Correspondence,  237- 
238. 

6.  Oliver  Dyer,  Great  Senators,  186. 

7.  Ben  Robertson,  Red  Hills  and  Cot- 
ton, 9,  128-129. 

8.  Benjamin  B.  Kendrick,  'The  Colonial 
Status  of  the  South,'  reprinted  from 
The  Journal   of  Southern  History, 
VIH,  No.  1,  Feb.  1942,  p.  6. 

9.  Ibid.,  11-12. 

10.  William  E.  Dodd,  Life  and  Labor  in 
the  Old  South,  32. 

11.  Benjamin    B.    Kendrick    and    Alex 


Mathews  Arnett,  The  South  Looks 
at  Its  Past,  41. 

12.  Dodd,  32. 

13.  Ibid.,  16. 

14.  Ibid. 

15.  Ibid.,  32.  See  also  W.  J.  Cash,  The 
Mind  of  the  South,  20-21,  41,  61. 

16.  Robertson,  75. 

17.  Ibid.,   60,   64-65,    71,   59,   90,    135- 
137,  178,  223. 

18.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride  Colhoun, 
June  14,  1826,  Correspondence,  235- 
236. 

19.  Calhoun  to  John  E.  Colhoun,  June 
14,  1826,  Correspondence,  236-237; 
and  to  James  Edward  Colhoun,  Dec. 
24,  1826,  Correspondence,  237-240. 

20.  Charles  C.  Knckney,  'Calhoun  from 
a  Southern  Standpoint,'  Lippincott's 
Magazine,  LXII,  July,  1898. 

21.  Manuscript  records  of  the  Fanners* 
Society,  August,  1826,  passim,  Clem- 
son  College. 

22.  Ibid.,  passim. 


548 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  xn  AND  xin 


23.  Calhoun  to  Littleton  Tazewell,  April       46. 
1,  1827,  Calhoun  Papers,  Library  of        47. 
Congress.  48. 

24.  W.    H.    V.    Miller,    contemporary 
sketch,  'Calhoun  as  a  Farmer/  un-        49. 
dated   dipping  in   Clemson   College 
Papers. 

25.  Calhoun  to  John  E.  Colhoun,  Sept.        SO. 
27,  1821,  Correspondence,  196-197.          51. 

26.  Calhoun  to  Littleton  Tazewell,  April 
1,  1827,  Calhoun  Papers,  Library  of 
Congress.  52. 

27.  Idem.  53. 

28.  Idem,  July  1,  1827. 

29.  Calhoun  to  James  E.  Colhoun,  May        54. 
4,  1828,  Correspondence,  264-265. 

30.  Calhoun  to  James  Monroe,  July  10,        55. 
1828,  Correspondence,  266-267.  56. 

31.  James  Parton,  Famous  Americans  of 
Recent  Times,  sketch  on  John  Ran-        57. 
dolph,  passim.  58. 

32.  Calhoun  to  Tazewell,  July  1,  1827. 

33.  Idem,  Aug.  25,  1827.  59. 

34.  Idem,  Aug  9,  1827.  60. 

35.  Calhoun  to  James  Monroe,  July  10, 
1828,  Correspondence,  266.  61. 

36.  Frank  A.  Dickson,  Jr.,  on  Calhoun, 
in  Anderson  Independent,  Dec.  15, 
1929.  See  MS.  clipping  in  Clemson        62. 
College  Papers. 

37.  See  Gerald  Johnson,  The  Secession 
of  the  Southern  States,  57-67,  pas- 
sim. 63. 

38.  Hermann  von  Hoist,  Life  of  John 
C.  Calhoun,  164-165. 

39.  Calhoun  to  James  Monroe,  July  10,        64. 
1828,  Correspondence,  62. 

40.  Calhoun  to  Littleton  Tazewell,  Nov. 

9,  1827,  Calhoun  Papers,  Library  of        65. 
Congress.  66. 

41.  Calhoun,  Life,  35. 

42.  W.  H.  Sparks,  Old  Times  in  Geor-        67. 
gia,  83. 

43.  Benjamin    F.    Perry,    Reminiscences        68. 
of  Public  Men,  77. 

44.  Sparks,  84-90,  passim.  69. 

45.  Perry,  77,  79. 


Ibid.,  131,  143-147. 
Ibid.,  177. 

Theodore  D.  Jervey,  Robert  Young 
Hayne  and  His  Times,  167. 
Calhoun  to  Virgil  Maxcy,  Sept.  11, 
1830,    Virgil    Maxcy    Papers,    Li- 
brary of  Congress. 
Calhoun,  Works,  I,  400-406. 
Webster  to   B.  F.  Perry,  April  10, 
1833,  quoted  hi   George  T.  Curtis, 
Life  of  Daniel  Webster,  I,  458. 
Parton,  148. 

Christopher  Hollis,  The  American 
Heresy,  95. 

Calhoun,  'The  South  Carolina  Ex- 
position/ Works,  VI,  1-32,  passim. 
The  Federalist,  no.  LX. 
Calhoun,  'The  South  Carolina  Ex- 
position/ Works,  VI,  32-46,  passim. 
Hollis,  103-104. 

Calhoun,  'The  South  Carolina  Ex- 
position/ Works,  VI,  17,  19,  25. 
Parton,  150. 

Kendrick,  'The  Colonial  Status  of 
the  South/  17. 

The  National  Emergency  Council, 
Report  on  Economic  Conditions  in 
the  South,  8,  49,  54,  60,  and  61. 
Hodding  Carter,  'Chip  on  Our 
Shoulder  Down  South/  in  The  Sat- 
urday Evening  Post,  219:  18-19 
(Nov.  2,  1946). 

Ellis  Arnall,  "The  Southern  Frontier/ 
Atlantic  Monthly,  Sept.,  1946,  29-35, 
passim. 

Frank  L.  Owsley,  'Pillars  of  Agrari- 
anism/  American  Review,  March, 
1935. 

Hollis,  97. 

Calhoun,  'The  South  Carolina  Ex- 
position/ Works,  VI,  55. 
Calhoun  to  James  E.  Colhoun,  Jan. 
28,   1828,   Correspondence,   256-260. 
Calhoun,  'The  South  Carolina  Ex- 
position/ Works,  VI,  56. 
Calhoun    quoted    hi   Niles9    Weekly 
Register,  XXXV,  61,  Sept.  20,  1828. 


PETTY  ARTS 


1.  Varina  Howell  Davis,  Jefferson  Da- 
vis: A  Memoir,  I,  213,  221. 

2.  Mary    Bates,   The   Private   Life   of 
John  C.  Calhoun,  23, 

3.  Ben:  Perley  Poore,  Reminiscences,  I, 
46. 

4.  Hammond  quoted,  in  The  Carolina 
Tribute  to  Calhoun,  373. 

5.  Poore,  I,  124. 

6.  Ibid.,  123. 


7.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  The  First 
Forty  Years  of  Washington  Society. 
234. 

8.  Queena  Pollack,  Peggy  Eaton:  De- 
mocracy's   Mistress,    77;    Margaret 
Bayard  Smith,  253. 

9.  Queena  Pollack,  77. 

10.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  253. 

11.  See  Calhoun,  'Mr.  Calhoun's  Reply 
to  Mr.  Eaton/  Works,  VI,  437. 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  xni  AND  xrv 


549 


12.  Gerald    Johnson,    America's    Silver 
Age,  11. 

13.  James  Parton,  Life  of  Andrew  Jack- 
son,  II,  329. 

14.  Queena  Pollack,  100. 

15.  Ibid.,  116. 

16.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  240;   also 
256-257,  277,  303. 

17.  Margaret  Eaton,  Autobiography,  72~ 
73. 

18.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  277. 

19.  Ibid.,  283. 

20.  Ibid.,  268. 

21.  E.  F.  Ellet,  Court  Circles  of  the  Re- 
public, 140. 

22.  Margaret    Bayard    Smith,    268-270, 
passim. 

23.  Webster   to   Mrs.    Ezekiel  Webster, 
Feb.  19,  1829,  quoted  in  George  T. 
Curtis,  Life  of  Daniel  Webster,  I, 
328,  340. 

24.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  289,  293. 

25.  Ibid.,  291. 

26.  James  Hamilton,  Jr.  to  Martin  Van 
Buren,  March  5,   1829,  Van  Buren 
Papers,  Library  of  Congress. 

27.  Poore,  I,  95. 

28.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  295. 

29.  Calhoun,    'Reply    to    Mr.    Eaton,' 
Works,  VI,  437-439. 

30.  J.  H.   Eckenrode,   The   Randolphs, 
251. 

31.  Calhoun,  Works,  VI,  437. 

32.  From   clipping   in   Calhoun    Papers 
South  Caroliniana  Library. 

33.  Calhoun  family  tradition. 

34.  See  J.  Q.  Adams,  Diary,  VIH,  159. 


Actually,  Mrs.  Eaton  furnished  a 
convenient  excuse  for  Flpride's  with- 
drawal, because  of  family  responsi- 
bilities. Floride  was,  in  fact,  planning 
to  return  to  Washington  for  the 
winter  of  1830-31,  but  was  kept  at 
home  by  the  illness  of  her  mother. 
See  Calhoun's  letters  to  James  Ed- 
ward Colhoun,  Dec.  3,  12,  and  14, 
1830,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson  Col- 
lege. See  also  Margaret  Bayard 
Smith,  290-292. 

35.  Calhoun  to  Patrick  Noble,  Jan.  10, 
1829,  Correspondence,  269;  Calhoun 
to  Christopher  Van  Deventer,  March 
20,  1829,  ibid.,  271. 

36.  Calhoun,    'Reply    to    Mr.    Eaton,' 
Works,  VI,  437-439. 

37.  Queena  PoUack,  54-55. 

38.  Poore,  I,  122,  130. 

39.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  320. 

40.  Calhoun  to  Samuel  L.  Gouverneur, 
March    30,    1830,    Correspondence, 
271. 

41.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  305-306. 

42.  Queena  Pollack,  144. 

43.  Poore,  I,  130-131. 

44.  See    Jackson's    letters    to    Andrew 
Donelson,    July    10,     11,    1831,    in 
Jackson    Correspondence,   IV,   310- 
311,  311-312;  also  letter  to  Colonel 
Howard,    Aug.    4,    1831,    Jackson 
Papers,    second    series,    Library    of 
Congress. 

45.  Martin  Van  Burent  Autobiography, 
377-379;  also  Jackson  Correspond- 
ence, IV,  245,  and  Poore,  I,  125. 


XIV.    AMERICA  GROWS  UP 


1.  George   T.    Curtis,   Life    of   Daniel 
Webster,  I,  337;  William  0.  Lynch, 
Fifty     Years     of     Party     Warfare, 
357. 

2.  Frances    Trollope,    Domestic    Man- 
ners of  the  Americans,  109. 

3.  Ibid.,  109. 

4.  Frederick  Marryat,  Diary  in  Amer- 
ica, 258-260  (American  edition). 

5.  Norwich   (Conn.)    Courier,  May  9, 
1826;  Marryat,  32-33. 

6.  Norwich  (Conn.)   Courier,  April  26, 
1826. 

7.  Ibid.,  Sept.  6,  1826. 

8.  Marryat,  35-36,  81,  151. 

9.  New  Haven  (Conn.)  Herald,  quoted 
in  Norwich   (Conn.)    Courier,  April 
12,  1826. 

10.  National  Banner,  quoted  in  Norwich 
(Conn.)   Courier,  April  26,  1826. 


11.  Mrs.   Basil  Hall,   quoted  in   Three 
Englishwomen  in  America,  94;  Fran- 
ces Trollope,  138. 

12.  Frances  Trollope,  30,  153. 

13.  Mrs.  Basil  Hall,  283. 

14.  William  E.  Dodd,  The  Cotton  King- 
dom, 33 ;  W.  J.  Cash,  The  Mind  of 
the  South,  345,  67. 

15.  Frances  Trollope,  190. 

16.  A  Voice  from  America  to  England, 
by    an    American    Gentleman,    10, 
quoted  in  Marryat,  10-11,  and  Basil 
Hall,  Travels  in  North  America,  IE, 
8,40. 

17.  Frances  Trollope,  96. 

18.  Marryat,  9. 

19.  Calhoun  to  Major  Henry  Lee,  April 
30,  1828,  in  Jackson  Correspondence, 
IV,  368-369;    Calhoun  to  Jackson, 
ibid.,  368-369;  Calhoun  to  Monroe, 


550 


NOTES:  CHAPTER  xiv 


Dec.  9,  Dec.  22,  1827,  Jan.  3,  March       45. 
7,  April,  and  July  10,  1828,  Calhoun 
Correspondence,    250-256,    260-264,       46. 
and  266.  47. 

20.  James  Parton,  Life  of  Andrew  Jack- 
son, II,  368-369.  48. 

21.  W.  H.  Sparks,  Old  Times  in  Georgia, 
57-58.  49. 

22.  Parton,  III,  322-325.  50. 

23.  Thomas  Hart  Benton,  Thirty  Years9 
View,  I,  128. 

24.  Jackson  to  Overton,  Dec.  31,  1829,       51. 
Jackson  Correspondence,  IV,  108.  52. 

25.  Charles  W.  March,  Daniel  Webster 
and  His  Contemporaries,  118-119. 

26.  Frances  Kemble,  Journal,  I,  88.  53. 

27.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  First  Forty       54. 
Years  of  Washington  Society,  309.  55. 

28.  Ibid.,  310.  56. 

29.  March,  138-139; -also  115-127,  pas-       57. 
sim. 

30.  Ibid.,    148;    see    also    Ben:    Perley        58. 
Poore,  Reminiscences,  I,  115-116. 

31.  March,  148. 

32.  Nathan   Sargent,   Public  Men   and       59. 
Events,  I,  52-53. 

33.  Poore,  I,  43-44. 

34.  Frances  Trollope,  240;  Amos  Ken-       60. 
dall,  Autobiography,  282. 

35.  United  States   Tekgraph,  Jan.   28, 

1830.  61. 

36.  Martin  Van  Buren,  Autobiography, 
413. 

37.  See  Sargent,  I,  175.  This  libel,  given 
voice  by  Kendall,  printed  by  Blair, 
repeated    and    circularized    through       62. 
the    entire    Nullification    crisis    and 
thereafter,  was  utterly  without  foun- 
dation; although  it  undoubtedly  re- 
flected wishful  thinking  on  the  part 

both  of  the  Southern  extremists  and  63. 
of  the  Jacksonians,  who  used  it  as  64. 
'proof  of  Calhoun's  'disloyalty.' 

38.  Van  Buren,  414. 

39.  Parton,  Andrew  Jackson,  HI,  284. 

40.  Van  Buren,  415. 

41.  United  States  Tekgraph,  April   17, 
1830. 

42.  John  Overton  to  Jackson,  June  16, 

1830,  Jackson  Correspondence,  IV,  65. 
151. 

43.  Sparks,  152. 

44.  Parton,  Andrew  Jackson,  n,  57-58.        66. 
Calhoun  to  Virgil  Maxcy,  Aug.  1, 
183^,  in  Virgil  Maxcy  Papers,  Li- 
brary of  Congress. 


Calhoun  to  Andrew  Jackson,  May 
29,  1830,  in  Works,  VI,  362-385. 
Idem,  370-372. 

Jackson  to  Calhoun,  July  19,  1830, 
Jackson  Correspondence,  IV,  399. 
Idem,  Oct.  24,  1830,  Jackson  Cor- 
respondence, IV,  387. 
Van  Buren,  377-379. 
Marquis   James,   Andrew  Jackson: 
Portrait  of  a  President,  chap.   10, 
535,  note  6. 

Washington  Globe,  Feb.  11,  1831. 
Jackson  to  C.  J.  Love,  March  7, 
1831,   Jackson  Correspondence,  IV, 
245. 

Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  334. 
Benton,  I,  215,  219. 
Sparks,  56. 
Ibid.,  55. 

James   Parton,  Famous   Americans 
of  Recent  Times,  153. 
Andrew  Pickens  Calhoun  to  William 
Meigs,    quoted   in    Meigs,    Life    of 
John  Caldwell  Calhoun,  II,  78. 
John  Randolph  to  Jackson,  March 
28,   1832,   Jackson  Correspondence. 
IV. 

John  Tyler  to  Robert  Young  Hayne, 
June  20,  1831,  Tyler  Papers,  Library 
of  Congress. 

Calhoun  to  James  H.  Hammond, 
March  18,  1831,  quoted  in  Memo- 
randum by  Hammond,  American 
Historical  Review,  VI  (July,  1901), 
741-745. 

John  C.  Calhoun  to  James  King- 
sley,  Oct.  12,  1829,  and  Jan.  22, 
1830,  Calhoun  Papers,  Yale  Univer- 
sity. (The  first  letter  is  at  Calhoun 
College.) 

Idem,  Aug.  30,  1830. 
See  'A  Circular  Explanatory  of  the 
recent  proceedings  of  the  Sophomore 
Ckss  in  Yale  College,  New  Haven, 
August  1830,'  in  folder,  'Papers  of 
Class  of  1832,'  MSS.  Division,  Yale 
University  Library;  also  1832  Class 
Book,  Edited  by  Edward  E.  Salis- 
bury, introduction;  also  47-50. 
Calhoun  to  James  Kingsley,  Aug.  30, 
1830,  Calhoun  Papers,  Yale  Univer- 
sity. 

Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria  Calhoun, 
Jail  11,  1831,  Dec.  30,  1831,  and 
March  10,  1832;  Correspondence, 
278-279,  308,  315-316. 


NOTES:  CHAPTER  xv 


SSI 


XV.    BLUE  COCKADES   AND  DUELING  PISTOLS 


1.  The   Due  de   Liancourt   quoted   in        34. 
Charles  Fraser's  Reminiscences,  54- 

55. 

2.  Ibid.,  34.  35. 

3.  Harriet    Martineau,    Retrospect    of 
Western  Travel,  I,  227-228. 

4.  Vernon   Parrington,   The   Romantic       36. 
Revolution  in  America,  109. 

5.  Basil  Hall,  Travels  in  North  Amer- 
ica, II,  190.  37. 

6.  Charles    Lyell,    Travels    in    North 
America,  I,  157—184,  passim. 

7.  Ibid.,  II,  246.  38. 

8.  Harriet  Martineau,  I,  225,  228. 

9.  Fraser,  55.  39. 

10.  Francis  Grund,  Aristocracy  in  Amer- 
ica, I,  19.  See  also  Fraser,  55,  and 
Jonathan  Daniels,  A  Southerner  Dis-        40. 
covers  the  South,  332.  41. 

11.  Benjamin  F.  Perry,  Reminiscences  of        42. 
Public  Men,  246-250;  362.  43. 

12.  Ibid.,  253-255.  44. 

13.  Caleb  Atwater,  Remarks  on  a  Tour        45. 
to  Prairie  du  Chien,  289. 

14.  Perry,  245. 

15.  Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,  Charleston,        46. 
The  Place  and  the  People,  31.  47. 

16.  John      Wentworth,      Congressional 
Reminiscences,  20. 

17.  R.  Gibson  to  James  MacBride,  April 

18,-  1817,  MacBride  Papers,  Library        48. 
of  Congress. 

18.  Parrington,  125. 

19.  W.  J.  Cash,  The  Mind  of  the  South,        49. 
93.  , 

20.  Fraser,  51-52. 

21.  Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,  481-482.  50. 

22.  Fraser,  116;  Peter  Neilson,  Recollec- 
tions, 249. 

23.  Caroline  Howard  Gilman,  RecoUec-        51. 
tions  of  a  Southern  Matron,  156. 

24.  Charleston  Courier,  Jan.  1,  14,  1807. 

25.  Vernon   Parrington,    The   Romantic        52. 
Revolution  in  America,  109-110. 

26.  Caroline  Howard  Gilman,  94. 

27.  Parrington,  109-110.  53. 

28.  Ben  Robertson,  Red  Hills  and  Cot-       54. 
ton,  96.  55. 

29.  Frederick  Marryat,  Diary  in  Amer- 
ica, 10. 

30.  Parrington,  123. 

31.  Calhoun  to  Samuel  Gouverneur,  Aug. 

18,   1831,   Correspondence,   299-300.        56. 

32.  Parrington,  120. 

33.  Columbia  Telescope,  June  10,  1831. 
William  Meigs,   The  Life   of  John        57. 
CaldweU  Calhoun,  I,  424,  430,  435. 


De  Saussure  to  Silliman,  Nov.  1, 
1830,  Fisher,  Life  of  Benjamin  Silli- 
man, I,  334. 

Manuscript  journal  of  James  Ham- 
mond, March  18,  1831,  in  Library  of 
Congress. 

Calhoun,  'Fort  Hill  Letter,'  quoted 
in  John  S.  Jenkins,  The  Life  of  John 
Caldwell  Calhoun,  161-187,  passim. 
Duff  Green  to  Richard  Cralte,  Oct. 
10,  1831,  Green  Papers,  Library  of 
Congress. 

American  Whig  Review,  autumn, 
1832. 

Calhoun,  'Letter  to  Governor  Ham- 
ilton,'  quoted  in  Jenkins,   195-232, 
passim. 
Perry,  244, 

Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,  451. 
Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,  451-452. 
Caroline  Howard  Gilman,  143. 
Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,  451. 
Joel  Poinsett  to  Andrew  Jackson, 
Nov.,  1832,  Jackson  Correspondence, 
IV,  488. 

Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,  451-452. 
Manuscript  proceedings  of  the  Nul- 
lification    Convention,    passim,    in 
State  Archives,  South  Carolina  His- 
torical Commission. 
James  D.  Richardson,  Messages  and 
Papers  of  the  Presidents,  H,  640- 
656,  passim. 

James  O'Hanlon  to  Jackson,  Dec. 
20,  1832,  Jackson  Correspondence, 
IV,  504. 

Hayne  to  Francis  Pickens,  Dec.  26, 
1832,  American  Historical  Review, 
VI,  756. 

George  McDuffie  to  Richard  CrallS, 
Dec.  26,  1832,  Cralle"  Papers,  Library 
of  Congress. 

Andrew  Jackson  to  Poinsett,  Dec. 
9,  1832,  Jackson  Correspondence,  IV, 
498. 

Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,  455. 
Ibid. 

Jackson  to  Van  Buren,  Aug.  30, 
1832,  Jackson  Correspondence,  IV, 
470.  Calhoun's  letter  of  resignation  is 
quoted  in  Gaillard  Hunt's  John  C. 
Calhoun,  159-160. 

Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel,  454;   also 
Robert  Henry  in  The  Carolina  Trib- 
ute to  Calhoun,  230. 
Quoted  in  Arthur  Stryon,  The  Cast- 
iron  Man,  185. 


552 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  xv  AND  xvi 


58.  See  'John  C.  Calhoun  and  the  Seces- 
sion Movement  of  1850'  in  Herman 
V.  Ames,  Proceedings  of  the  Ameri- 
can Antiquarian  Society,  April  1919, 


19-50,  passim;  also,  Beverly  Tucker 
to  James  Hammond,  March  25, 1850, 
quoted  in  The  WilUam  and  Mary 
Quarterly,  XVIII,  44-46. 


XVL    PORCE  AND  COUNTER-FORCE 


1.  Amos  Kendall,  Autobiography,  631.        21. 

2.  Fanny  Kemble,  Journal,  I,  87. 

3.  Ibid.,  99.  22. 

4.  Providence  Record,  quoted  in  Nor- 
wich (Conn.)  Courier,  May  31,  1826. 

5.  Fanny  Kemble,  I,  86. 

6.  Frances    Trollope,    Domestic    Man-       23. 
ners  of  the  Americans,  271. 

7.  Fanny  Kemble,  I,  99.  24. 

8.  Ibid.,  I,  33-34;  29.  25. 

9.  Ibid.,  I,  33-34.  26. 

10.  Silas  Wright  to  Martin  Van  Buren,        27. 
Jan.  13,  1833,  Jackson  Correspond- 
ence, IV.  28. 

11.  Fanny  Kemble,  II,  25. 

12.  Charles  March,  Daniel  Webster  and 

His  Contemporaries,  191.  29. 

13.  Thomas  Hart  Benton,  Thirty  Years9 
View,  I,  342-344;   Nathan  Sargent, 
Public   Men    and   Events,    I,    241;        30. 
and  Ben:  Perley  Poore,  I,  Reminis-        31. 
cences.  Although  the  truth  of  this        32. 
incident  has  been  denied,  Jackson's        33. 
correspondence    gives    ample    testi-        34. 
mony   that   the    thought   of  hang- 
ing John  C.   Calhoun,  either  as  a        35. 
threat  or  a  pleasing  daydream,  was 
continually  in  his  mind.  That  some        36. 
kind  of  midnight  visit  did  take  place        37. 
is   probable,    on   the   testimony   of 
several,  not  unbiased,  political  re-        38. 
porters   of   Calhoun's  day.   It  had, 
however,  no  political  effect;  and  is 
quoted  here  merely  as  local  color. 
Undoubtedly,  it  added  to  Calhoun's        39. 
nerve-strain;    it    had    no    influence 
whatever  on  his  course  of  action,  for 

he  knew  Andrew  Jackson  well  40. 
enough  to  be  aware  of  what  was  in  41. 
his  mind  all  along. 

14.  W.  H.  Sparks,  Old  Times  in  Georgia,       42. 
59. 

15.  March,  225. 

16.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  The  First 
Forty  Years  of  Washington  Society,        43. 
341-342. 

17.  March,  227.  44. 

18.  Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Colhoun, 
Jan.  10,  1833,  Correspondence,  323. 

19.  Baltimore  Patriot,  quoted  in  Rich-        45. 
mond  Enquirer,  Jan.  22,  1833.  46. 

20.  March,  201.  47. 


Congressional  Debates,  22d  Congress, 
2d  Session,  Jan.  15,  1833. 
Charles  J.  Stille",  'Joel  R.  Poinsett,' 
in  Pennsylvania  Magazine  of  His- 
tory and  Biography  (1885),  XII, 
284-285. 

United  States  Telegraph,  Jan.  5, 
1833. 

Washington  Globe,  Jan.  3,  1833. 
Boston  Courier,  Jan.  29,  1833. 
March,  195. 

Ben:  Perley  Poore,  Reminiscences,  I, 
140. 

See  United  States  Telegraph,  Feb.  15 
and  Feb.  16;  Feb.  18  and  Feb.  19, 
1833. 

Calhoun,  speech  on  'The   Revenue 
Collection  Bill,'  Works,  H,  197-261, 
passim. 
March,  227. 
Ibid.,  338. 
Charleston  Courier. 
Washington  Globe,  Feb.  16,  1833. 
Ibid.,  Feb.  17,  1833;  also  Charleston 
Courier. 

Charleston  Courier,  Feb.  23,  Feb.  25, 
1833. 

Richmond  Enquirer,  Feb.  21,  1833. 
United  States  Telegraph,  Feb.  26, 
1833. 

Daniel  Webster  to  Judge  Hopkinson, 
Feb.  19  and  Feb.  15,  1833,  hi  Ed- 
ward Hopkinson  Collection,  Philadel- 
?hia. 
ackson  to  Joel  Poinsett,  Feb.  17, 
1833,    Jackson    Correspondence,    V, 
18. 

March,  248. 

Arthur  Stryon,  The  Cast-Iron  Man, 
196-198,  passim. 

Charleston  Mercury,  March  27, 
1833 ;  United  States  Telegraph,  Feb. 
26,  1833;  John  S.  Jenkins,  John 
Caldwell  Calhoun,  313. 
Calhoun,  Works,  II,  276-278,  285- 
286,  291. 

Walter  Miller,  'Calhoun  as  a  Law- 
yer and  Statesman/  The  Green  Bag, 
XI,  276. 
Benton,  I,  342. 

Richmond  Enquirer,  Feb.  16,  1833. 
Ibid. 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  xvi,  xvn,  AND  xvin 


553 


48.  Boston  Courier,  Jan.  18,  1833. 

49.  Philadelphia  Sentinel,  Feb.  18,  1833. 

50.  Nantucket  Courier,  quoted  in  Bos- 
ton Courier,  Jan.  31,  1833. 

51.  New  York  Evening  Post,  quoted  in 
Boston  Courier,  Feb.  19,  1833. 

52.  Richmond  Enquirer,  Jan.  3,  1833. 

53.  Sargent,  I,  234. 

54.  'The  Ten  Evils  of  Stage-coaches,'  in 
The  Ladies'  Repository  (Dec.  1856), 
753. 

55.  Frances  Trollope,  217;   Calhoun  to 
Franklin  Elmore,  November  24, 1840, 
Calhoun  Papers,   Library   of   Con- 


gress; Frederick  Marryat,  Diary  lit 
America,  149. 

56.  Thurlow  Weed,  Autobiography,  139. 

57.  Perry,   135;  see  also  Reminiscences 
of  Public  Men,  Second  Series,  223. 

58.  New  York  Herald,  April  5,  1850. 

59.  Philip  S.  Foner,  Business  and  Slav- 
ery, 284. 

60.  Calhoun  to  Christopher  Van  Deven- 
ter,  March  24,  1833,  Correspondence, 
324. 

61.  Christopher    Hollis,    The    American 
Heresy,  107. 


XVH.    CALHOUN  AT  WAR 


1.  Calhoun     to     Littleton     Tazewell, 
Jan.  24,  Jan.  16,  and  Feb.  9,  1836, 
Calhoun  Papers,  Library  of  Congress. 

2.  Hermann  von  Hoist,  John  C.  Cal- 
houn, 164. 

3.  James    Parton,    Famous   Americans 
of  Recent  Times,  57. 

4.  Calhoun  to  David  Hoffman,  Nov.  4, 
1835,  Correspondence,  347-348. 

5.  Marquis    James,    Andrew    Jackson, 
Portrait  of  a  President,  250. 

6.  Nicholas  Biddle,  The  Correspondence 
of    Nicholas    Biddle,    Reginald    C. 
McGrane,  ed.,   93-94. 

7.  Claude  G.  Bowers,  Party  Battles  of 
the  Jackson  Period,  213. 

8.  Ibid.,  Jackson  quoted,  219-220. 

9.  Gerald    Johnson,    Andrew    Jackson 
(College  Caravan  Edition),  144. 

10.  Nicholas  Biddle  to  Alexander  Por- 
ter, June  14,  1834,  Correspondence, 
235-236;  see  also  Webster's  letters  in 
New  Hampshire   Historical  Society 
Collection. 

11.  John  Spencer  Bassett,  Life  of  An- 
drew Jackson,  II,  635. 

12.  Nicholas  Biddle  to  William  Apple- 
ton,  Jan.  27,  1834,  Correspondence, 
219;  Bowers,  311. 

13.  Hugh  R.  Fraser,  Nicholas  Biddle  and 
the  Bank,  19. 

14.  Amos  Kendall,  Autobiography,  395- 
397. 


15.  Calhoun,  speech  on  'The  Removal  of 
the  Public  Deposits,'  Jan.  13,  1834, 
Works,  H,  313,  325,  338-339,  333- 
334;  Calhoun  to  Tazewell,  Feb.  9, 
1834,   Calhoun   Papers,   Library    of 
Congress. 

16.  Calhoun,  speech   on   "The  Proposi- 
tion of  Mr.  Webster  to   Recharter 
the    Bank    of    the    United    States,' 
March  21,  1834,  Works,  II,  349,  345, 
348,  363,   365.  In   this   speech,   ac- 
claimed by  Benton  as  restoring  de- 
bate 'to  the  elevation  that  belonged 
to    the    Senate,'    Calhoun    actually 
agreed  to   vote  for  Webster's   mo- 
tion, 'objectionable'  as  he  found  it; 
but  his  objections  apparently  con- 
vinced    Webster,     who     personally 
withdrew  the  motion.  No  action  was 
taken  on  Calhoun's  counter-sugges- 
tion. 

17.  Calhoun,  speech  on  'The  President's 
Protest,'  May   6,   1834,   Works,   H, 
415,  417,  418-425. 

18.  Calhoun,  speech  on  'Executive  Pa- 
tronage,' Feb.  13,  1835,  Works,  II, 
446-465. 

19.  Calhoun,  speech  on  bill  'To  Regulate 
the  Public  Deposits,'  May  28,  1836, 
Works,  II,  534-568. 

20.  Calhoun,  speech  on  'The  Admission 
of  Michigan,'  Jan.  5,  1837,  Works, 
II,  613. 


XVHL    THE  AGE  OF  JACKSON 


1.  See  William  Meigs,  The  Life  of  John 
Caldwell  Calhoun,  H,  118. 

2.  Harriet    Martineau,    Retrospect    of 
Western  Travel,  I,  161-162. 

3.  See  The  Diary  of  Philip  Hone,  Bay- 
ard Tuckerman,  ed.,  I,  76-77.  A  vivid 
description  of  the  House  of  Repre- 


sentatives can  be  found  in  Marryat's 
Diary  in  America,  89-90. 

4.  Frances  Trollope,  Domestic  Manners 
of  the  Americans,  176,  228-229. 

5.  Harriet  Martineau,  I,  155-156. 

6.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,  First  Forty 
Years  of  Washington  Society,  301. 


554 


NOTES:  CHAPTER  xvnr 


7.  M.  A.  DeWolfe  Howe,  The  Life  and 
Letters   of   George    Bancroft,    196; 
Bancroft  to   Mrs.   S.   D.   Bancroft, 

Dec.  27,  1831;  Marryat,  90-91.  39, 

8.  Francis    J.    Grund,    Aristocracy    in        40. 
America,  II,  265. 

9.  Ben:  Perley  Poore,  Reminiscences,  I,        41. 
87. 

10.  Grund,  II,  186-187. 

11.  Poore,  I,  61,  191. 

12.  See  Grund,  II,  184-185.  Detailed  de-        42. 
scriptions    of    the    discomforts    of        43, 
Washington  boarding  houses  of  the 
period  may  also  be  found  in  Fanny        44. 
Kemble's    Journal,    Harriet    Marti-        45. 
neau's  Retrospect  of  Western  Travel,        46. 
and    Frances    Trollope's    Domestic 
Manners. 

13.  Nathaniel  P.  Willis,  Hurry-Graphs,       47. 
180-181. 

14.  Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria   Calhoun, 
Jan.  25,  1838,  Correspondence,  390- 

391;  also  Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria,        48. 
Dec.  18.  1839,  ibid.,  436-437. 

15.  Harriet  Martineau,  I,  149.  49. 

16.  Poore,  I,  343-344. 

17.  Amos  Kendall,  Autobiography,  280-        50. 
282;  see  also  Poore,  I,  50-52;  and 
Marryat,  89. 

18.  Fanny  Kemble,  Journal,  II,  87.  51. 

19.  Mrs.    Basil    Hall,    The    Aristocratic 
Journey,  quoted  in  Three  English- 
women in  America,  165.  52. 

20.  Frances  Trollope,  176-177. 

21.  Fanny  Kemble,  II,  89;  see  also  Mar- 
ryat, 89-90,  and  Frances  Trollope,        53. 
177,  183. 

22.  Harriet  Martineau,  I,  144-145. 

23.  Ibid.,  I,  179. 

24.  Poore,  I,  143-144. 

25.  Ibid.,  I,  189;  202-204. 

26.  James  Parton,  Famous  Americans  of 
Recent  Times,  124. 

27.  Harriet  Martineau,  I,  147-148. 

28.  Calhoun   to   Anna   Maria   Calhoun, 
May  14,  1834,  Correspondence,  336. 

29.  Parton,  124.  54. 

30.  Grund,  H,  321. 

31.  Kendall,  629-630. 

32.  Grund,  H,  '212.  55. 

33.  Hone,  Diary,  Dec.  8,  1835,  I,   177. 

34.  Harriet  Martineau,  I,  147. 

35.  Parton,  142. 

36.  Harriet  Martineau,  I,  147-149,  241.        56. 

37.  Ibid.,  I,  181-182. 

38.  Just  who   would   have   issued    the        57. 
challenge  is  a  mystery.  For  Calhoun, 
stung  to  fury,  repaid  Benton  with        58. 
compound  interest,  hi  perhaps  the 
most  bitter  outbreak  of  his  career. 


See  Hone,  Diary,  Feb.  17,  1835,  I,. 
133;  also  Charleston  Courier,  Feb. 
23^  1835. 

Harriet  Martineau,  I,  149-150. 
John  S.  Jenkins,  John  Caldwell  Cal- 
houn, 450. 

James  C.  Jewett  to  Gen.  Dearborn, 
Feb.  5,  1817,  in  William  and  Mary 
Quarterly       Historical       Magazine, 
XVII,  no.  2,  Oct.  1908,  139-144. 
Grund,  II,  321. 

New  York  Evening  Post,  Feb.  19, 
1838;  Boston  Post,  Dec.  16,  1833. 
South  Carolina  tradition. 
Poore,  I,  136-137. 

Arthur  M.  Schlesinger,  Jr.,  The  Age 
of  Jackson,  53 ;  W.  H.  Milburn,  Ten 
Years  of  Preacher  Life,  152-153. 
Calhoun  to  Duff  Green,  March  28, 
1844,  Correspondence,  722-723;  to 
James  H.  Hammond,  April  24,  1841, 
ibid.,  490. 

Mrs.  E.  F.  Ellet,  Court  Circles  of 
the  Republic,  162-163. 
Nathan   Sargent,    Public   Men    and 
Events,  II,  239;  I,  173. 
Richard    Cralle",    undated    reminis- 
cences of  Calhoun  in  Gralle"  Papers, 
Library  of  Congress. 
Parton,  106;  Poore,  II,  64,  136;  Cal- 
houn    to     Anna    Maria     Clemson, 
March  7,  1848,  Correspondence,  745. 
Calhoun  to  Christopher  Van  Deven- 
ter,   Feb.    7,    1836,   Correspondence, 
357-358. 

Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria  Calhoun, 
April  3,  1834,  May  14,  1834;  also 
to  Thomas  Clemson,  Dec.  13,  1840; 
to  Anna  Maria  Clemson,  June  28, 
1841;  to  Thomas  Clemson,  July  23, 
1841;  to  Anna  Maria  Clemson, 
March  20,  1842;  Correspondence, 
333,  335,  336-337,  468,  480,  482, 
506;  also  to  Mrs.  Clemson,  June  23, 
1837,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson  Col- 
lege. 

Calhoun  to  James  E.  Colhoun,  Nov. 
30,  1830,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson 
College. 

Calhoun  to  Thomas  Clemson,  Aug  8, 
1841,  Correspondence,  486;  Calhoun 
to  James  Edward  Colhoun,  Feb.  8, 
1834,  ibid.,  331-332. 
Josiah  Quincy,  Figures  of  the  Past, 
263. 

Mary   Bates,   The  Private   Life   of 
John  C.  Calhoun,  10. 
Anna  Maria  Clemson's  reminiscences 
of   her   father   in   Clemson    College 
Papers. 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  xvm  AND  xix 


555 


59.  Bates,  9. 

60.  A.  C.  Cole,  The  Whig  Party  in  the 
South,  48;  the   Earl  of  Selkirk  to 
Jean,  Countess  of  Selkirk,  Jan.  8, 
1836,  in  Charter  Room,  St.  Mary's 


Isle,  Kirkudbright,  Scotland,  quoted 
in   preface    to    John   P.   Pritchett's 
Calhoun  and  His  Defense    of    the 
South. 
61.  Grand,  H,  321. 


XIX.   SLAVERY— THE  THEORY  AND  THE  FACT 


1.  Reminiscences  of  Cato   as   told   to 
Mrs.  Francis  Calhoun,  in  Mrs.  Fran- 
cis     Calhoun      Papers      (privately 
owned),  Clemson  College. 

2.  Calhoun  to  Charles  J.  Ingersoll,  Aug. 
4,    1818,    Correspondence,    136-137; 
and  Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Col- 
houn,  Aug.  27,  1831,  ibid.,  301. 

3.  Calhoun   to   John  Ewing   Colhoun, 
Jan.  15,  1827,  Correspondence,  240- 
241. 

4.  J.   K.   Paulding,   Letters  from   the 
South,  I,  117;  see  also  James  Parton, 
Famous  Americans  of  Recent  Times, 
119. 

5.  Robert  Walsh,  Notices  of  Brazil,  II, 
477-490,  passim. 

6.  Calhoun,   Works,   IV,  339-349;   II, 
133. 

7.  Ibid.,  Ill,  631;  Hermann  von  Hoist, 
John  C.  Calhoun,  5. 

8.  Basil  Hall,  Travels  in  North  Ameri- 
ica,  n,  200. 

9.  B.  MacBride  in  The  Southern  Agri- 
culturist, HI,  175. 

10.  Frederick    Law    Olmsted,    Journey 
Through  the  Slave  States,  106. 

11.  Debow's  Review,  XV,  257-277. 

12.  Sarah  M.  Maury,  The  Statesmen  of 
America,  378;  also  Calhoun  to  Virgil 
Maxcy,    March     18,     1822,     Virgil 
Maxcy  Papers,  Library  of  Congress. 

13.  Parton,  120. 

14.  John  C.  Calhoun,  pamphlet  of  the 
State  Department  of  Education,  Co- 
lumbia S.  C. 

15.  Mary   Bates,   The  Private  Life   of 
John  C.  Calhoun,  20-21. 

16.  Mrs.   Basil   Hall,   quoted  in    Three 
Englishwomen  in  America,  220. 

17.  Cato's   reminiscences,    Mrs.   Francis 
Calhoun  Papers. 

18.  Ibid. 

19.  See    Frederick    Law    Olmsted,    The 
Cotton   Kingdom,    II,    73;    Charles 
Lyell,  A  Second  Visit  to  the  United 
States,    I,    263;    also    Calhoun    to 
Thomas  Clemson,  Dec.  30,  1842,  Cal- 
houn Papers,  Clemson  College. 

20.  Cato's  reminiscences. 

21.  Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Colhoun, 


Oct.  7,  1835,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clem- 
son College. 

22.  Frances  Kemble,  Journal,  II,  338. 

23.  CA   Southern   Churchwoman's   View 
of  Slavery,'  in  Church  Intelligencer, 
Nov.  22,  1860. 

24.  See   The   Carolina  Tribute   to   Cal~ 
houn,  234. 

25.  Olmsted,  Journey  Through  the  Slave 
States,  385. 

26.  Bates,  21. 

27.  Frances  Trollope,  Domestic  Manners 
of    the    Americans,    199;     Caroline 
Howard  Oilman,  Recollections  of  a 
Southern  Matron,  54. 

28.  Church  Intelligencer,  Nov.  22,  1860. 

29.  Lyell,  Travels  in  North  America,  I, 
157-184,  passim. 

30.  Slave  reminiscences  in  Mrs.  Francis 
Calhoun  Papers. 

31.  Caroline  Howard  Oilman,  181,  50- 
51,  54,  293;  Mrs.  Francis  Calhoun 
Papers,  and  Lyell,  .4  Second  Visit  to 
the  United  States,  I,  265. 

32.  Church  Intelligencer,  Nov.  22,  1860; 
see  also  Frances  Butler  Leigh,  Ten 
Years  on  a  Georgia  Plantation^  pas- 
sim. 

33.  John  S.  C.  Abbott,  Slavery,  South 
and  North,  142,  154,  and  161. 

34.  Lyell,  Travels,  I,  22. 

35.  Allan  Nevins  and  Henry  Steele  Com- 
mager,  History  of  the  United  States, 
214-215. 

36.  See  Johri  Quincy  Adams,  Diary,  IV, 
530-531;  V,  5-11,  13. 

37.  David  Cohn,  'How  the  South  Feels,' 
The   Atlantic  Monthly,  Jan.    1944, 
47-51. 

38.  Fanny  Kemble,  Journal,  II,  393. 

39.  Frederick  Marryat,  Diary  in  Amer- 
ica, 193;  Lyell,  Travels,  I,  157-184; 
A.  C.  Cole,  'The  Whig  Party  in  the 
South,'  in  The  Annual  Report  of  the 
American      Historical      Association, 
Washington,  1913 ;  and  Grund,  Aris- 
tocracy in  America,  I,  30. 

40.  Olmsted,  The  Cotton  Kingdom,  II, 
111. 

41.  Ibid.,  110. 

42.  Calhoun,  quoted  in  Von  Hoist,  John 
C.  Calhoun,  141. 


SS6 

43.  Cohn,  'How  the  South  Feels,5  At-        68. 
Untie  Monthly,  Jan.  1944,  47-51. 

44.  William  Garnett,  July  12,  1805,  in 
papers    of    Thomas    Rufiin,    North        69. 
Carolina      Historical      Commission 
Publications,  I,  80.  70. 

46.  Hall,  II,  260.  71. 

47.  Marryat,  190;  Hall,  II,  218.  72. 

48.  Amos  Kendall,  Autobiography,  502; 

W.  H.  Sparks,  Old  Times  in  Georgia,        73. 
34;  Marryat,  194;  Lyell,  A  Second        74. 
Visit   to   the   United  States,  I,  72; 
Olmsted,  The  Seaboard  Slave  States, 
385.  75. 

49.  Freedom's      Defense       (pamphlet),        76. 
Worcester  Antiquarian  Society. 

50.  Albert  J.  Beveridge,  Abraham  Lin- 
coln (Standard  Library  Edition),  n,        77. 
19;  Allan  Kevins,  Ordeal  of  the  Un- 
ion, I,  148-149. 

51.  Calhoun,  Works,  II,  623;  VI,  'The        78. 
Southern  Address,'  285-313.  79. 

52.  See  issues  of   The  Liberator,  Aug. 
1831.  80 

53.  Marryat,  194. 

54.  Abbott,     74;     Olmsted,     Seaboard       81, 
Slave   States,   385;    Harriet   Marti- 
neau,  Slavery  in  America,  29;  Mar-        82, 
ryat,   190,   193,   195;   and  Lyell,  A 
Second  Visit,  I,  181-182.  83. 

55.  Church  Intelligencer,  Nov.  22,  1860. 

56.  Calhoun  to  Thomas  Clemson,  Sept.        84. 
1846,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson  Col- 
lege. 85. 

57.  Marryat,    190-191;    Thomas    Dew, 
Pro-Slavery  Argument,  228-229.  86. 

58.  Lyell,  A  Second  Visit,  I,  271-272. 

59.  James  Sparks,  Old  Times  in  Georgia, 
111. 

60.  Lyell,  A  Second  Visit,  I,  209-210; 

Mrs.    Basil    Hall,    The    Aristocratic       87. 
Journey,  quoted  in   Three  English- 
women in  America,  210. 

61.  Marryat,  82.  88. 

62.  Ibid.,  83 ;  also  William  Jay,  Miscel- 
laneous  Writings  on  Slavery,  371- 

394,  passim.  89. 

63.  Marryat,  83.  90. 

64.  William  Jay,  Miscellaneous  Writings 
on  Slavery,  371-394,  passim. 

65.  Thomas  L.  Nichols,  Forty  Years  of       91. 
American  Life,  II,  278-280;  see  also 
Lyell,  A  Second  Visit,  H,  71. 

66.  Abbott,  75,  78,  85-86.  92. 

67.  Robert  Henry,  quoted  in  The  Caro- 
Una  Tribute   to  Calhoun,  234-235; 
also  Henry   Clay,  Speech   on  'The 
Abolition   Petitions/   Feb.    7,    1839, 

in  Life  and  Speeches  of  Henry  Clay.        93. 
II,  418. 


NOTES:  CHAPTER  xix 


Calhoun,    Works,   IV,    517;    Dodd,. 
The  Cotton  Kingdom,  63;  Parring- 
ton,  The  Romantic  Revolution,  100. 
Sarah    M.    Maury,    The   Statesmen 
of  America,  365. 
Lyell,  A  Second  Visit,  I,  82. 
Ibid.,  241. 

William   J.    Grayson,    The   Hireling 
and  the  Slave,  preface,  vii,  viii. 
Richmond  Enquirer,  Jan.   19,  1832. 
Clement       Eaton,      Freedom       of 
Thought  in  the  Old  South,  174-175: 
162,  21,  111. 
Ibid.,  63. 

J.  D.  B.  DeBow,  The  Interest  in 
Slavery  of  the  Southern  Non-Slave- 
holder, 10. 

Quoted  in  Carl  Sandburg's  Abraham 
Lincoln:    The  Prairie    Years    (Blue 
Ribbon  Edition),  403. 
The  Subterranean,  Sept.  13,  1845. 
Congressional  Globe,  33d  Congress* 
1st  Session,  1224. 

Orestes  Brownson  in  Boston  Quar- 
terly Review,  July,  1840. 
Christopher    Hollis,    The    American 
Heresy,  110. 

The  Liberator,  Jan.  1  and  Jan.  17, 
1831. 

John  Quincy  Adams,  Diary,  IV, 
530-531. 

John  C.  Coit,  quoted  in  The  Caro- 
lina Tribute  to  Calhoun,  149ff. 
George  Fisher,  The  Life  of  Benjamin 
SilUman,  II,  98. 

Gerald  Johnson,  The  Secession  of 
the  Southern  States,  61 ;  also  George 
F.  Cushman,  'John  C.  Calhoun,' 
Magazine  of  American  History,  VIII, 
612-619. 

Calhoun,  speech  on  'Abolition  Peti- 
tions,' March  9,  1836,  Works,  IL 
488-489. 

Jackson  to  Amos  Kendall,  Aug.  9, 
1835,  Jackson  Correspondence,  V, 
360-361. 

Calhoun,  Works,  II,  515. 
See  Calhoun's  speech  on  'Deputy- 
Postmasters,'  April  12,  1836,  Works, 
H,  509-533. 

Calhoun,  speech  on  'Reception  of 
Abolition  Petitions,'  Feb.  6,  1837, 
Works,  II,  627. 

Calhoun,  speech  on  'The  Abolition 
Petitions,'  March  9,  1836,  Works,  II, 
481-482 ;  see  also  Thomas  Hart  Ben- 
ton,  Thirty  Years'  View,  II,  135, 
138. 

See  text  of  Resolutions  of  Dec.  27, 
1837,  Calhoun's  Works,  HI,  140-142. 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  xrx  AND  xx 


557 


94.  Hollis,  119. 

95.  Calhoun,  Works,  III,  145. 

96.  Calhoun   to   Anna  Maria   Calhoun, 
Jan.  25,  1838,  Correspondence,  391. 

97.  Calhoun,  Works,  III,  154;  also,  ibid., 
n,  486. 

98.  Ibid.,  Ill,  154. 

99.  Ibid.,  speech  on  "The  Reception  of 
Abolition    Petitions,'    Feb.    6,    1837, 
Works,  II,  629;  ibid.,  Ill,  170-171. 

100.  Calhoun,  'Remarks  on  Resolutions,' 
Dec.  27,  1837  ff.;  Works,  III,  159- 
161. 

101.  Ibid.,  in,  155;  II,  629. 

102.  Ibid.,  Ill,  163-164. 

103.  Ibid.,   n,   629;   also    The  Carolina 
Tribute  to  Calhoun,  361. 

104.  Calhoun,  Works,  IV,  516-517. 


105.  Ibid.,  m,  148-152,  177. 

106.  Ibid.,  142. 

107.  Calhoun,  remarks  on  the  cCase   of 
the  brigs,   Comet,   Emporium,  and 
Enterprise/   Feb.    14,    1837,   Works, 
HI,  10-12. 

108.  Gerald   Johnson,    Secession    of    the 
Southern  States,  61.  Marryat,  194- 
195,    points    out    that    slavery    was 
working  its  way  westward ;  and  fore- 
cast that  within  'twenty   or  thirty 
years    [1860-1870]    .    .    .    provided 
.  .  .  these  states  are  not  injudiciously 
interfered   with,'    the    upper    South 
and    possibly    even    Tennessee    and 
South  Carolina  would  'of  their  own 
accord,  enroll  themselves  among  the 
free  states.' 


xx.  FLORIDE 


1.  Ben  Robertson,  Red  Sills  and  Cot- 
ton, 98,  102. 

2.  Gerald  Johnson  to  author. 

3.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  John  C.  Calhoun, 
March  1, 1812,  Correspondence,  124- 
125.  See  also  letters  to  Anna  Maria 
Calhoun,  Sept.  8,  1837,  and  June  28, 
1841,  Correspondence,  379  and  480; 
and  June  23,  1837,  Calhoun  Papers, 
Clemson  College. 

4.  Calhoun  to  Mrs.   Floride  Colhoun, 
Dec.  23,  1805,  Jan.  19  and  April  13, 
1806,  Correspondence,  101,  102,  and 
105. 

5.  Mrs.  St.  JuKen  Ravenel,  The  Life  of 
WilUam  Lowndes,  83-84. 

6.  See  Calhoun  to  Mrs.  Floride  Col- 
houn,   Dec.    22,    1806,    Correspond- 
ence, 108;  to  Thomas  Holland,  July 
2,  1833,  ibid.,  324;  to  David  Hoff- 
man, Nov.  4,  1835,  ibid.,  347-348;  to 
Frederick  H.  Sanford,  Feb.  23,  1841, 
ibid.,  476. 

7.  Calhoun   to   Jacob   Brown,   Brown 
Letter   Book,    BR2,  Aug.    1,    1820, 
Brown  Papers,  Library  of  Congress. 

8.  John  S.  Jenkins,  Life  of  John  CM- 
wett  Calhoun,  448. 

9.  Walter  Miller,  'Calhoun  as  a  Lawyer 
and  Statesman,'  The  Green  Bag,  XI, 
330. 

10.  Oliver  Dyer,  Great  Senators  of  the 
United  States,  168-170. 

11.  Varina     Ho  well     Davis,     Jefferson 
Davis,   I,    213;    Mary    Bates,    The 
Private  Life  of  John  C.  Calhoun,  9. 

12.  Calhoun  to   Anna  Maria   Clemson, 
July,  1848,  and  March  and  August, 


1844,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson  Col- 
lege. 

13.  Patrick  Calhoun  to  author,  May  6, 
1943.  (Patrick  Calhoun  of  Pasadena, 
California,  was  the  son  of  Andrew 
P.  Calhoun,  and  thus  the  grandson 
of  both  John  C.  Calhoun  and  Duff 
Green.  Born  in  1856,  he  spent  his 
early   childhood   at  Fort  Hill,   and 
after  the  death  of  his  father,  lived 
with    Duff    Green   in    Georgia,    ac- 
cumulating a  fund  of  reminiscences 
and  lore  on  the  Calhoun  family.  He 
died  in  1943.) 

14.  Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria   Clemson, 
March,  1844,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clem- 
son College. 

15.  Patrick  Calhoun  to  author,  May  6, 
1943. 

16.  Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Colhoun, 
April  21,  1838,  Correspondence,  395- 
396. 

17.  Clipping  from  the  Washington  Daily 
Union,  Aug.  18,   1849,  on  the  per- 
sonal habits  of  John  C.  Calhoun. 

18.  Clipping,    by    Frank    Dickson,    Jr., 
from     Anderson     Independent,     in 
Clemson  College  Papers. 

19.  Fort  Hill  tradition. 

20.  Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria   Clemson, 
Feb.  1848,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson 
College. 

21.  Calhoun  to  Thomas  Clemson,  July, 
1842,  Calhoun  Papers. 

22.  See  letter  of  Calhoun  to  Clemson 
Dec.    3,    1842    in    Calhoun    Papers, 
Clemson    College;    and    to    T.    R. 
Matthews,  Aug.   18,  1845,  Calhoun 


558 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  xx  AND  xxi 


Papers,  Library  of  Congress,  in 
which  he  referred  to  'a  severe  ill- 
ness of  Mrs.  Calhoun  with  an  at- 
tack of  a  nervous  character  which 
confined  her  to  bed  for  more  than 
a  month.5 

23.  Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Colhoun, 
undated,   Calhoun   Papers,  Clemson 
College. 

24.  See    John    Quincy    Adams,    Diary, 
VIII,    159;    also    Margaret   Bayard 
Smith,  290-292.  It  is  true,  however, 
that  family  responsibilities  tended  to 
keep  Floride  at  home  in  later  years, 
and  that  on  several  occasions  she 
spent  a  winter  with  her  husband  in 
the  'messes.'  However,  she  was  not 
with  him   in  his  times  of  greatest 
crisis   and   strain,   and  in   the  last 
years  did  not  come  to  Washington 
at  all. 

25.  See  CraHe"  Papers  on  death  of  Cal- 
houn, in  Library  of  Congress. 

26.  See  Elbridge  Brooks,  Eminent  Amer- 
icans, 292;   Christopher  Hollis,  The 


American  Heresy,  83;  and  Jenkins, 
25. 

27.  See  Calhoun's  letters  to  Anna  Maria 
Calhoun,   Feb.    13    and   March    10, 
1832;  May  14,  1834;  to  Mrs.  Clem- 
son,   Jan.  3,   1841,   Correspondence, 
312,  316,  336,  and  472. 

28.  Sarah  M.  Maury,  The  Statesmen  of 
America,  376-377. 

29.  Bates,  8. 

30.  Letter  of  Calhoun,  March  9,   1844, 
Correspondence,  574. 

31.  Henry  Clay  in  The  Carolina  Tribute 
to  Calhoun,  9-10. 

32.  Calhoun  to   Anna   Maria    Calhoun, 
April  3,  1834,  Correspondence,  333- 
335. 

33.  South  Carolina  tradition. 

34.  Calhoun    to    Andrew    Pickens    Cal- 
houn,    April     12,     1847,     Calhoun 
Papers,  Duke  University  Library. 

35.  Calhoun   to  Anna   Maria   Calhoun, 
April  3,  1834,  Correspondence,  334. 

36.  E.  E.  Poe,  clipping  on  Calhoun  in 
Clemson  College  Papers. 


XXI.    YEARS   OF  DECISION 


1.  See  Reginald  C.  McGrane,  The  Panic 
of  1837,  40-70,  passim. 

2.  Hugh    R.    Fraser,    Nicholas   Biddle 
and  the  Bank,  62-75,  passim;  Mc- 
Grane, 177. 

3.  Philip  Hone,  Diary,  I,  256-257. 

4.  See  issues  of  National  Intelligencer, 
May  1-10,  1837,  -passim. 

5.  Charles    Dickens,    American    Notes 
(Library  Edition),  282. 

6.  McGrane,  25. 

7.  Frederick  Marryat,  Diary  in  Amer- 
ica, 18-19. 

8.  Hermann  von  Hoist,  History  of  the 
United  States,  II,  216;  William  M. 
Gouge,  Fiscal  History  of  Texas,  75. 

9.  Cincinnati  Inquirer,  Jan.  12,  1842. 

10.  Niks'  Weekly  Register,  LII,  166. 

11.  Calhoun,  Works,  III,  227. 

12.  Fraser,  34;   Thomas  Hart  Benton, 
Thirty  Years'  View,  II,  26. 

13.  Benton,  II,  20,  26,  27. 

14.  Marryat,  18. 

15.  Benton,  II,  250. 

16.  Calhoun,  Works,  HI,   75.   See  also 
Calhoun's   speech    on    the    'Bill   to 
Separate  the  Government  from  the 
Banks,'   Works,   HI,    102-122,   pas- 
sim. 

17.  Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Colhoun, 
Sept.  7,  1837,  Correspondence,  377. 


18.  Calhoun  quoted  in  Benton,  E[»  250. 

19.  Arthur  M.  Schlesinger,  Jr.,  The  Age 
of  Jackson,  246-247. 

20.  North  American  Review,  Jan.  1844, 
and  National  Intelligencer,  Feb.  24, 
1842. 

21.  Christopher    Hollis,    The    Two   Na- 
tions, 205,  204. 

22.  J.    D.    B.    DeBow,    Industrial   Re- 
sources of  the  Southern  States,  III, 
93;    London   Times,  Oct.   2,    1859; 
Thomas  P.  Kellett,  Southern  Wealth 
and  Northern  Profits,  98. 

23.  See  Calhoun's  speech  on  'The  Re- 
moval of  the  Deposits,'  Works,  II, 
309-343;    also   Albert    Brisbane,    A 
Mental  Biography,  222. 

24.  Vernon   Parrington,    The   Romantic 
Revolution  in  America,  vL 

25.  Calhoun,  Works,  III,  96;  speech  on 
the  'Issue  of  Treasury  Notes,'  Oct.  3, 
1837,  115ff.;  also  Calhoun  to  R.  H. 
Goodwyne,  Niles*  Weekly  Register, 
Sept  29,  1838. 

26.  New   York   Journal   of   Commerce, 
June  13,  1850. 

27.  Philip  S.  Foner,  Business  and  Slav- 
ery, 16;   Hone,  II,  54;  New  York 
Evening  Post,  April  25,  1844. 

28.  London  Times,  quoted  in  New  York 
Tribune,  Sept.  29,  1860. 


NOTES:  CHAPTER  xxi 

29.  New   York   Post,   April    16,    1861;        51. 
Journal  of  Commerce,  May  5,  1860; 

New  York  Times,  Nov.  24,  1854;  52. 
and  Annual  Report  of  the  American  53. 
Anti-Slavery  Society,  1858,  56. 

30.  Samuel  J.  May,  Recollections  of  the 
Anti-Slavery  Conflict,  127-128.  54. 

31.  Schlesinger,  246-248;   Francis  Pick- 
ens,  quoted  in  House,  Oct.  10,  1837,        55. 
Register  of  Debates,  25th  Congress, 

1st  Session,  1393-1395. 

32.  Schlesinger,  231.  56. 

33.  New  York  Herald,  April  1,   1850;        57. 
Calhoun  to  Orestes  Brownson,  Oct. 

31,  1841,  quoted  in  Orestes  Brown- 
son,  Jr.,  Brownson9 s  Early  Life,  302. 

34.  Benton,  II,   132-133.  58. 

35.  Calhoun   to   Andrew   Pickens    Cal-        59. 
houn,  April  5,  1838,  Correspondence, 

394. 

36.  David     Campbell    to    William     C. 
Rives,  Oct.  3,   1838,  Rives  Papers, 
Library  of  Congress.  60. 

37.  H.   L.   Hopkins   to  William   Rives, 
Oct.  3,  1838,  Rives  Papers. 

38.  B.  W.  Leigh  to  John  J.  Crittenden, 
June  5,  1838,  Crittenden  Papers,  Li- 
brary of  Congress. 

39.  Mrs.  E.  F.  Ellet,  Court  Circles  of 
the  Republic,  244. 

40.  Thomas  Cooper  to  Nicholas  Biddle, 
May  14,  1837,  in  Biddle  Correspond- 
ence, 279.  61. 

41.  Reginald  C.  McGrane,  ed.,  The  Cor- 
respondence of  Nicholas  Biddle,  266; 

see  also  Claude  M.  Fuess,  Daniel  62. 
Webster,  II,  67. 

42.  McGrane,  226. 

43.  Andrew    Jackson    to    Frank    Blair,        63. 
Aug.  12,  1841,  Jackson  Correspond- 
ence, VI. 

44.  Calhoun  to  James  Hammond,  Feb. 

23,    1840,   Correspondence,  448-450.        64. 

45.  Calhoun   to   Anna   Maria   Calhoun, 
Dec.     10,     1837,    Calhoun    Papers, 
Clemson  College.  65. 

46.  David     Campbell    to    William     C. 
Rives,  Oct.  31,  1838,  Rives  Papers, 
Library  of  Congress. 

47.  Daniel  Webster  to  Nicholas  Biddle,        66. 
in  McGrane,  Biddle  Correspondence, 

301;  Calhoun,  Works,  HI,  228,  243. 

48.  Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria   Calhoun, 
Sept.  30,  1837,  Correspondence,  380. 

49.  Calhoun,  Works,  II,  310.  See  also 
letters  to  Francis  Pickens,  Jan.  4,        67. 
1834,  Correspondence,  328. 

50.  Calhoun  to  Pickens,  Dec.  12,  1833,        68. 
and  Jan.  4,   1834,  Correspondence,        69. 
326-329. 


559 

Ben:  Perley  Poore,  Reminiscences, 
I,  205. 

Benton,  II,  97ff. 

Calhoun,  speech  on  the  'Independent 
Treasury  Bill,'  March  10,  1838, 
Works,  III,  249-250,  273-275,  277. 
John  S.  Jenkins,  Life  of  John  Cald- 
well  Calhoun,  378. 

Calhoun,  Works,  III,  269;  see  also 
Congressional  Globe,  25th  Congress, 
2d  Session,  March  10,  1838,  176-181. 
Benton,  II,  122-123. 
See  Gaillard  Hunt,  John  C.  Cal- 
houn, 244;  Charleston  Mercury, 
June  7,  1838;  Niks'  Weekly  Regis- 
ter, LIV,  339. 

Calhoun,  Works,  III,  270-271. 
Calhoun   to   Anna   Maria   Clemson, 
May  30,  1840,  Correspondence,  458 ; 
Jan.  3,  1841,  ibid.,  470-472 ;  June  28, 

1841,  ibid.,    478-480;     March     20, 

1842,  ibid.,  506. 

Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria  Clemson, 
March  20,  1842,  Correspondence, 
505;  to  Francis  W.  Pickens,  Jan.  4, 
1834,  ibid.,  328;  to  Anna  Maria, 
May  14,  1834,  ibid.,  337;  idem, 
Sept.  8,  1837,  ibid.,  379;  idem,  Dec. 
18,  1839,  ibid.,  437;  to  Thomas  G. 
Clemson,  July  11,  1841,  ibid.,  481; 
see  also  New  York  Herald,  April  1, 
1850;  Jenkins,  448. 
Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria  Clemson, 
April,  1839,  and  Dec.  1841,  Calhoun 
Papers,  Clemson  College. 
W.  H.  Parmalee,  'Recollections  of 
an  Old  Stager,'  Harpers'  New 
Monthly  Magazine  (Oct.  1873),  757. 
Mary  Bates,  The  Private  Life  of 
John  C.  Calhoun,  9-10;  Varina 
Howell  Davis,  Jefferson  Davis,  I, 
213;  and  Parmalee,  757. 
Angelica  Singleton,  March  13,  1838, 
and  March  4,  1839,  Angelica  Van 
Buren  Papers,  Library  of  Congress. 
Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Col- 
houn,  Feb.  1,  1840,  Correspondence, 
445;  to  Anna  Maria  Clemson,  Feb. 
13,  1840,  ibid.,  445-448. 
Duff  Green  to  Calhoun,  Aug.  21, 
1840,  Correspondence,  828-829;  Cal- 
houn to  Duff  Green,  May,  1839, 
ibid.,  427-429;  and  Calhoun  to  Anna 
Maria  Clemson,  Jan.  3,  1841,  ibid., 
470-471. 

See  Arthur  Stryon,   The  Cast-Iron 
Man,  241-242. 

Varina  Howell  Davis,  I,  190. 
Quoted   in   W.    E.    Woodward's    A 
New  American  History,  428. 


560 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  xxi  AND  xxn 


70.  Calhoun   to  Anna  Maria   Clemson, 
Feb.  17,  1841,  Correspondence,  475. 

71.  Poore,  I,  254,  291. 

72.  Calhoun,  speech  to  'Reduce  Certain 
Duties,'  Feb.  23,  1837,  Works,  HI, 
45-46;  see  also  ibid.,  in,  377,  451; 
ibid.,  IV,   103,  46. 

73.  Calhoun,  Works,  IV,  150. 

74.  Ibid.,   IV;    speech    on    'Mr.   Clay's 
Resolutions,'    ibid.,     100-101,     103; 
see  also  ibid.,  2,  109,  115,  120,  126, 
127,  134-135,  174. 

75.  Calhoun,  Works,  IV,  171-172,  173, 
207. 

76.  Poore,  I,  266,  273. 

77.  Parmalee,  758-760. 

78.  Anecdote    in    Joseph    Rogers,    The 
True  Henry  Clay,  250. 

79.  Calhoun   to    James   H.   Hammond, 
Nov.  27,  1842,  Correspondence,  522. 

80.  Calhoun,  Works,  II,  614. 

81.  Dixon    Lewis    to    Richard    Crall6, 
March  14,  1842,  CrallS  Papers,  Li- 
brary of  Congress. 

82.  Duff   Green  to   Calhoun,  Aug.   21, 
1840,  Correspondence,  828. 

83.  Calhoun   to   Green,   July  27,   1837, 
Correspondence,  375. 

84.  Lemuel  Williams  to  Calhoun,  Sept. 
6,    1843,    Correspondence,   874-876; 
and    Joseph    Scoville    to    Calhoun, 
Oct.  25,  1842,  ibid.,  855-856. 

85.  Quoted  in  Charleston  Mercury,  Sept. 
10,  1843. 

86.  Franklin    H.    Elmore    to    Calhoun, 
Nov.  2,  1842,  Correspondence,  857- 
861. 


87.  Calhoun  to  R.  M.  T.  Hunter,  July 
10,  1843,  Correspondence,  540-541; 
and  to  Duff  Green,  Sept.  8,   1843, 
ibid.,  545-547. 

88.  See  Hunt,  251. 

89.  Calhoun   to   Anna  Maria   Clemson, 
Feb.  6,  1843,  Correspondence,  540- 
541;   and  to   Duff   Green,   Sept.  8, 
1843,  ibid.,  545-547. 

90.  Jackson  (Ala.)  Republican. 

91.  Calhoun    to    Duff   Green,   July   27, 
1838,  Correspondence,  376, 

92.  Edward  Block  to  Calhoun,  Sept.  1, 
1843,  Correspondence,  868-871. 

93.  James  Hamilton  to  Calhoun,  Nov. 
21,  1843,  Correspondence,  891-894; 
Lemuel  Williams  to  Calhoun,  Sept. 
6,  1843,  ibid.,  874-878;  Franklin  H. 
Elmore  to  Calhoun,  Jan.  13,  1844, 
ibid.,  911-912. 

94.  Calhoun  to  George  McDuffie,  Dec. 

4,  1843,    Correspondence,   552-555; 
see  also   New  Aurora  and   Mobile 
Tribune,  Jan.  27,  1844. 

95.  Robert  B.  Rhett  to  Calhoun,  Dec.  8, 
1843,  Correspondence,  898-900;  Vir- 
gil   Maxcy    to    Calhoun,    Dec.    10, 

1843,  ibid.,  898-900;  R.  M.  T.  Hun- 
ter to  Calhoun,  Feb.  6,  1844,  ibid., 
927-931. 

96.  James  A.  Seddon  to  Calhoun,  Feb. 

5,  1844,  Correspondence,  923-924. 

97.  Calhoun  to  R.  M.  T.  Hunter,  Feb.  1, 

1844,  Correspondence,  564;  to  Duff 
Green,  Feb.  10,  1844,  ibid.,  564;  to 
James    Edward    Colhoun,    Feb.    7, 
1844,  ibid.,  566-567. 


XXII.    CALHOUN  AND  THE  LONE   STAR 


1.  Hermann  Von  Hoist,  Calhoun,  222, 
234. 

2.  Ben:  Perley  Poore,  I,  Reminiscences, 
303 ;  Thomas  L.  Nichols,  Forty  Years 
of  American  Life,  II,  168. 

3.  American  Historical  Review,  XIII, 
311-312. 

4.  London  Morning  Chronicle,  Aug.  19, 
1843. 

5.  Leon  Tyler,  Letters  and  Times  of 
the  Tylers,  II,  330. 

6.  Calhoun  to  Upshur,  Aug.  27,  1843, 
text  hi  National  Archives. 

7.  Thomas  W.  Gilmer  to  Calhoun,  Dec. 
13,  1843,  Correspondence,  905;  Cal- 
houn to  Gilmer,  Dec.  25,  1843,  ibid., 
559. 

8.  Tyler,  II,  226e;  ibid.,  HI,  194. 

9.  E.  F.  EHet,  Court  Circles  of  the  Re- 
public, 356. 


10.  Tyler,  II,  226e;  ibid.,  HI,  197. 

11.  Poore,  I,  278. 

12.  There   are  numerous   contemporary 
accounts  of  this  meeting  of  which  the 
most    authentic    are    Henry    Wise, 
Seven  Decades  of  the  Union,  22 Iff.; 
Frank  G.  Carpenter,  'A  Talk  With 
a   President's   Son,'  in  Lippincott's 
Magazine,  IV,  420;  Tyler,  II,  244; 
and  Poore,  II,  315. 

13.  Tyler  to   Calhoun,  March  6,  1844, 
Correspondence,  438-439. 

14.  Dixon  Lewis  to  Calhoun,  March  6, 
1844,  Correspondence,  935-938;  and 
Dixon  Lewis  to  CrallS,  March   19, 
1844,  Crall<§  Papers,  Library  of  Con- 
gress. 

15.  Niles*  Weekly  Register,  March   23, 
1841;  Dixon  Lewis  quoted  in  Cor- 
respondence,     938;      and      Francis 


NOTES:  CHAPTER  xxn 


561 


Wharton  to  Calhoun,  March  8,  1844, 
ibid.,  939-940. 

16.  Letter  of  Calhoun,  March  9,  1844, 
Correspondence,  573-576. 

17.  George  McDuf&e  to  Calhoun,  March 
5,    1844,   Correspondence,   934-935; 

also  Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Col-        36. 
houn,  March  19,  1844,  Clemson  Col- 
lege Papers. 

18.  Allen  Tate,  Stonewall  Jackson:  The 
Good  Soldier,  381. 

19.  Calhoun  addressing  Daniel  Webster 

in  Senate,  March  7,  1850;  Calhoun        37. 
to  Wharton,  Correspondence,  644. 

20.  Calhoun  to  Francis  Wharton,  Sept. 
17,  1844,  Correspondence,  615-617. 

21.  Jackson  to  A.  V.  Brown,  Feb.   12,        38. 
1843;   reprinted  in   Richmond   En- 
quirer,  March  22,  1844. 

22.  Thomas      Hart      Benton,      Thirty        39* 
Years'   View,  II,  617;  see  Marquis 
James,    Andrew    Jackson:    Portrait 

of  a  President,  484.  40. 

23.  James  Hammond  to  Calhoun,  May 
10,   1844,   Correspondence,  953-955. 

24.  Calhoun  to  Francis  Wharton,  May        41. 
28,  1844,  Correspondence,  592-594; 

also  Calhoun  to  George  W.  Houk, 
Oct.  14,  1844,  ibid.,  624-625. 

25.  Calhoun  to  Francis  Wharton,  May        42. 
28,  1844,  Correspondence,  592-594. 

26.  Idem. 

27.  Harriet    Martineau,    Retrospect    of        43. 
Western  Travel,  I,  144,  160. 

28.  Oliver  Dyer,  Great  Senators  of  the 
United  States,  185.  44. 

29.  Ibid.,   185;    Sarah   M.  Maury,   The 
Statesmen     of    America,     345-346; 
Martineau,  I,  244-245. 

30.  See    Samuel    F.    Bemis,    ed.,    The        45. 
American   Secretaries    of    State,    V, 
'John  C.  Calhoun,'  by  St.  George  L. 
Sioussat,  sketch,  passim.  46. 

31.  Tate,  237. 

32.  See  Von  Hoist,  231;  also  Texas  In- 
structions,    Department    of    State, 
I,    1837-1845,    Calhoun    to    W.    S. 
Murphy,   April    13,    1844,   National        47. 
Archives;  also  Niks'  Weekly  Regis- 
ter, LXVT,   232;   and  W.   S.   Mur-        48. 
phy    to    Calhoun,    April    29,    1844, 
Correspondence,  947-948. 

33.  Calhoun  to  J.  R,  Mathews,  May  9,        49. 
1844,    Calhoun    Papers,   Library    of 
Congress.  50. 

34.  Senate  Document  341,  28th  Congress,        51. 
1st  Session,  48.  See  also  Von  Hoist, 

236  and  242.  52. 

35.  John    Greenleaf   Whittier,    Poetical       53. 
Works,  'To  a  Southern  Statesman,'  I,        54. 


208;  'Letter  on  Texas'  (pamphlet), 
Hamden,  in  Worcester  Antiquarian 
Society;  also  William  Preston  to 
John  J.  Crittenden,  Jan.  28,  1844, 
Crittenden,  Papers,  Library  of  Con- 
gress. 

Letter  of  Alexander  H.  Stephens, 
May  17,  1844,  Stephens  Papers,  Li- 
brary of  Congress:  also  William 
Preston  to  Crittenden,  Jan.  28,  1844, 
Crittenden  Papers,  Library  of  Con- 
gress. 

Tyler,  II,  330;  Calhoun,  Works,  TV, 
333-335,  358-359 ;  Calhoun  to  J.  R. 
Mathews,  July  2,  1844,  Calhoun 
Papers,  Library  of  Congress. 
Calhoun  to  Thomas  Clemson,  Jan. 
1843,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson  Col- 
lege. 

Thomas  Clemson  to  Calhoun  (un- 
dated), Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson 
College. 

Calhoun  to  James  E.  Colhoun,  June 
29,  1844,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson 
College. 

Mary  Bates,  The  Private  Life  of 
John  C.  Calhoun,  9,  30-31;  Varina 
Ho  well  Davis,  Jefferson  Davis:  A 
Memoir,  I,  275. 

Anna  Maria  Clemson  to  Calhoun 
(undated) ,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson 
College. 

Calhoun  to  Henry  St.  George 
Tucker,  March  31,  1843,  Correspond- 
ence, 526-528. 

Calhoun  to  John  E.  Colhoun,  Dec. 
16,  1844;  to  James  Edward  Colhoun, 
Oct.  2,  1845,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clem- 
son College. 

Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria  Clemson, 
May  22,  1845,  Correspondence,  656- 
657. 

Legislative  Archives,  State  Depart- 
ment Messages,  Feb.  6,  1845 ;  Legis- 
lative Archives,  ibid.,  Dec.  9,  1844; 
and  Texas  Instructions,  National  Ar- 
chives, Aug.  13,  1844,  XV. 
Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria   Clemson, 
May  22,  1845,  Correspondence,  657. 
W.  H.  Parmalee,  'Recollection  of  an 
Old  Stager,*  Harpers  New  Monthly 
Magazine  (Oct.  1873),  756. 
Letter  of  Calhoun,  March  9,  1844, 
Correspondence,  575-576 
Varina  Howell  Davis,  I,  221-224. 
E.  F.  Ellet,  310-311;  Varina  Howell 
Davis,  I,  271,  220. 
E.  F.  Ellet,  357. 
Tyler,  III,  197-199. 
Ibid.,  II,  433,  336,  and  436.  See  also 


562 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  xxn  AND  xxiu 


Ambrose  Mann  to  Calhoun,  Oct.  31, 
1834,  Correspondence,  982-986;  Wil- 
liam R.  King  to  Calhoun,  Oct.  or 
Nov.,  1844,  ibid.,  986-990. 

55.  Frederick  Marryat,  Diary  in  Amer- 
ica, 197. 

56.  Letters  of  Andrew  Jackson  Donelson 
to  Calhoun,  Jan.  27  and  30,   184S, 
Correspondence,     1019-1022,     1023- 
1024. 

57.  Von  Hoist,  251,  234. 

58.  Calhoun  to  Thomas  W.  Gilmer,  Dec. 
25,   1843,   Correspondence,   559-560. 

59.  Calhoun  to  William  Shannon,  Sept. 
11,  1844,  Legislative  Archives,  XV, 
Department  of  State;  William  Shan- 


non to  Calhoun,  Feb.  7,  1845,  Na- 
tional Archives. 

60.  Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Colhoun, 
Feb.     16,    1845,    Calhoun     Papers, 
Clemson  College;  Francis  Wharton's 
notes  for  Feb.  18  and  Feb.  20,  1845, 
Correspondence,  644. 

61.  Von  Hoist,  247,  254;  also  Duff  Green 
to  James  Knox  Polk,  Jan.  20,  1845, 
Polk  Papers,  Library  of  Congress; 
and    Eugene    I.    McCormac,   James 
Knox  Polk,  287-288. 

62.  David  S.  Muzzey,  A  History  of  Our 
Country,  218. 

63.  Tyler,  II,  153. 

64.  Von  Hoist,  255. 


XXIII.    THE  MASTER  OP  FORT 


1.  Mary   Bates,    The  Private   Life   of 
John  C.  Calhoun,  8. 

2.  Mrs.  Margaret  Bayard  Smith,   The 
First    Forty    Years    of    Washington 
Society,     268-269;      John     Quincy 
Adams,  Diary,  V,  452. 

3.  Calhoun  to  J.   G.  Swift,  May   10, 
1823  and  Oct.  30,  1823 ;  see  also  Cal- 
houn to  Anna  Maria  Clemson,  Dec. 
18,  1839,  Correspondence,  436;  and 
April  10,  1849,  ibid.,  763. 

4.  Bates,  12. 

5.  Walter  L.  Miller,  'Calhoun  as  a  Law- 
yer and  Statesman,'  The  Green  Bag, 
XI,  271;  also  Charleston  Mercury, 
June  20,  1846. 

6.  Cato's     reminiscences,     quoted     in 
Mrs.  Francis  Calhoun  Papers,  Clem- 
son College,  South  Carolina. 

7.  See  description  of  Fort  Hill  by  Mrs. 
Patrick   H.    Mell,    Charleston   Sun- 
day News,  April  30, 1905 ;  also  Bates, 
14. 

8.  Records   of  the  Pendleton  Library 
Society,  Clemson  College,  South  Car- 
olina,   including    membership    and 
book  lists. 

9.  See  list  of  books  in   Calhoun's  li- 
brary in   Clemson   College   Papers; 
also  Walter  L.  Miller  in  The  Green 
Bag,  XI,  330. 

10.  Calhoun   to   Anna  Maria   Calhoun, 
April  3,  1834,  Correspondence,  334. 

11.  Calhoun   to  Anna   Maria   Clemson, 
March    24,    1840,    Calhoun   Papers, 
Clemson  College.  A  part  of  this  let- 
ter is  printed  in  Correspondence,  451. 

12.  Claude  M.  Fuess,  Daniel  Webster,  II, 
333,  335,  343. 

13.  Interview  with  Calhoun  in  Washing- 
ton Daily  Union,  Aug.  18,  1849. 


14.  Reminiscences  of  Calhoun  by  James 
E.  Colhoun,  April,  1850,  manuscript 
in  Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson  College. 

15.  Plantation    Day-Book    of    William 
Lowndes,  1802-1822,  18,  19,  manu- 
script in  Lowndes  Papers,  Library  of 
Congress. 

16.  Ibid. 

17.  Sarah  M.  Maury,  The  Statesmen  of 
America,  363. 

18.  W.   H.   V.   Miller,    'Calhoun   as   a 
Farmer/    printed,     clipped    article, 
dated  1843,  in  Clemson  College  Pa- 
pers.  See   also   the   Report   of   the 
Committee  on  Farms  for  the  Pendle- 
ton Farmers'  Society,  Southern  Cul- 
tivator, IH   (July,  1845),  and  Cal- 
houn's letter  to  James  Edward  Col- 
houn, Feb.  26,  1832,  Correspondence, 
313,  in  which  he  estimated  that  soil 
erosion  was  costing  South  Carolina, 
alone,     about     $20,000,000     yearly. 
Calhoun's  own  skill  as  a  soil  culti- 
vator blinded  him  to  the  destructive 
effect  of  the  cotton-slave  economy 
on  the  Southern  soil  generally;  for, 
as  an  individual,  he  had  proved  that 
with  proper  care  such  erosion  could 
be  controlled.  He  did  not  see  that  to 
the   average   cotton    speculator    the 
availability  of  cheap  knd  and  cheap 
labor   made   soil-conservation   mea- 
sures appear  unnecessary. 

19.  Calhoun  to  J.  R.  Mathews,  Aug.  18, 
1845,    Calhoun   Papers,   Library    of 
Congress;  also  Calhoun  to  Clemson, 
1845,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson  Col- 
lege. 

20.  Reminiscences  of  James  E.  Colhoun, 
April,  1850,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clem- 
son College. 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  xxin  AND  xxiv 

21.  CUpping  by  Frank  A.  Dickson,  Jr., 
from  Anderson  (S.  C.)  Independent, 
Dec.   IS,   1929,  in   Clemson  College 
Papers. 

22.  Ben  Robertson,  Red  Hills  and  Cot- 
ton, 222-223. 

23.  Walter  L.  Miller,  The  Green  Bag, 
XI,  328. 

24.  Fort  Hill  tradition. 

25.  Bates,   9;   Miller,  328;   Washington 
Daily  Union,  Aug.  18,  1849. 

26.  Mary  Baker  Chesnut,  A  Diary  from 
Diode,  March  11,  1861. 

27.  George     Washington     Featherston- 
haugh,  Canoe  Voyage  up  the  Minnay 
Sotor,  II,  267-269. 

29.  Told  the  author  by  Mark  Bradley 
of  the  Clemson  College  Faculty,  who 
heard  it  from  Ted*  himself. 

29.  Reminiscences  of  Calhoun  by  Anna 
Maria  Clemson,  April,  1850,  printed 
copy  in  Clemson  College  Papers. 

30.  Article    by    Dickson    in    Anderson 
(S.  C.)  Independent,  Dec.  15,  1929; 
see  also  'John  C.  Calhoun's  Home 
Life,1  Anderson  (S.  C.)  Daily  Mail, 
Oct  23,  1926. 

31.  Maury,  373;  William  Mathews,  Ora- 
tory and  Orators,  312-313;   Daniel 
Webster  in  The  Carolina  Tribute  to 
Calhoun,  11-12. 

32.  Featherstonhaugh,  II,  247-272,  pas- 
sim. 

33.  Planter's    Day-Book    (anonymous) , 
in  Clemson  College  Library. 

34.  Featherstonhaugh,       II,       270-272 ; 
Bates,  10;  Maury,  377;  in  Gamaliel 
Bradford's  As  God  Made  Them,  103 ; 
also  Dixon  Lewis  to  Crall6,  June  10, 
1840,  Cralle"  Papers,  MSS.  Division, 
Library  of  Congress. 

35.  Featherstonhaugh,   II,    270;    Benja- 


563 

min  F.  Perry,  Reminiscences  of  Pub- 
lic Men,  80-81. 

36.  Featherstonhaugh  gives  an  excellent 
appraisal  of  Calhoun's  character  in 
his  sketch,  II,  247-272,  passim.  See 
also  Maury,  382-384. 

37.  Robert  Barnwell  Rhett,  in  The  Caro- 
lina Tribute  to  Calhoun,  371. 

38.  Perry,  45-46. 

39.  See  Holmes,  quoted  hi  The  Carolina 
Tribute  to   Calhoun,  27,  31;   Ham- 
mond, ibid.,  321;   Clay,  ibid.,  9-10. 

40.  Bates,  14. 

41.  Maury,  238. 

42.  Perry,  44. 

43.  John    S.    Jennings,    John    Caldwett 
Calhoun,   453;    James    Parton,   Fa- 
mous Americans   of  Recent   Times, 
142 ;  Henry,  quoted  in  The  Carolina 
Tribute  to  Calhoun,  237;  and  John 
Wentworth,  Congressional  Reminis- 
cences, 21,  31. 

44.  James  E.  Colhoun,  'Reminiscences  of 
Calhoun'  (manuscript),  April,  1850; 
Charles  C.  Pinckney,  'Calhoun  From 
a  Southern  Standpoint,'  Lippincott's 
Monthly,  LXII    (July,  1898). 

45.  Henry  S.  Foote,  Casket  of  Reminis- 
cences, 78 ;  see  also  R.  M.  T.  Hunter 
Papers,  Virginia  State  Historical  Li- 
brary. 

46.  Parton,  142;  Jenkins,  448;  Jefferson 
Davis  in  North  American  Review, 
CXLV   (1887),  246  ff. 

47.  Parton,  122. 

48.  Miller,    The    Green   Bag,   XI,   330; 
Hammond  in  The  Carolina  Tribute 
to  Calhoun,  323;  Bates,  27. 

49.  Bates,  26;  Miller,   The  Green  Bag, 
XI,  329;  and  Charles  C.  Pinckney 
in  Lippincottfs  Monthly,  LXII  (July, 
1898). 


XXIV.    AMERICA  IN  MID-CEMTTXTRY 


1.  J.  D.  B.  DeBow,  Statistical  View  of 
the  United  States,  126-128. 

2.  World    Almanac     (Official    Census, 
1945),  129. 

3.  DeBow,  165. 

4.  DeBow,     192.    See    the    following 
breakdown  of  figures  in  the  official 
Seventh  Census  (J.  D.  B.  DeBow, 
editor),  Washington,  1853:   agricul- 
tural  workers,   exclusive   of  slaves, 
2,400,583;   workers  in  manufactur- 
ing   and    commerce,    exclusive    of 
women  and  children,  1,596,265;  non- 
agricultural  workers  (male),  993,620, 
totalling  2,589,885  for  non-agricul- 


tural workers  ;also  381,408  employed 
in  miscellaneous  occupations. 

5.  Thomas  L.  Nichols,  Forty  Years  of 
American  Life,  I,  208-209,  224,  235, 
248;    Frederick   Marryat,   Diary   in 
America,  141. 

6.  Marryat,  41;  Carl  Sandburg,  Abra- 
ham   Lincoln:    The    Prairie    Years 
(Blue  Ribbon  Edition),  64. 

7.  Charles  Lyell,  A  Second  Visit  to  the 
United  States,  II,    160-161. 

8.  Francis  Grund,  Aristocracy  in  Amer- 
ica, II,  70. 

9.  Frederick  von  Raumer,  America  and 
the  American  People,  491-496. 


564 


NOTES:  CHAPTER  xxiv 


10.  Alexis  de  Tocqueville,  Democracy  in       40. 
America,  I,  483. 

11.  Ibid.,  333. 

12.  Grund,  I,  114,  117. 

13.  Ibid.,  45,  102-103;  Nichols,  II,  194; 

and     Frances     Trollope,     Domestic       41. 
Manners  of  the  Americans,  242. 

14.  Grund,  I,  33-34,  45.  42. 

15.  Ibid.,  195;  von  Raumer,  491-496. 

16.  Grund,  II,  167.  43. 

17.  Ibid.,   I,   72-73;    Frances   Trollope, 
177,  240. 

18.  Von  Raumer,  491-496 ;  Frances  Trol-       44. 
lope,  67-68. 

19.  Grund,  I,  197;  II,  18. 

20.  Lyell,  Travels  in  North  America,  I, 

57.  45. 

21.  Nichols,  H,  135-151,  passim. 

22.  Ibid.,  II,  141,  143,  145,  147.  46. 

23.  Calhoun   to   James  H.   Hammond, 
April  18,  1838,  Correspondence,  394-        47. 
395. 

24.  Gustavus   Pinckney,  John  C.  Cal- 
houn, 94-95. 

25.  Frances  Trollope,  195.  48. 

26.  W.  J.  Cash,  The  Mind  of  the  South, 

20,  5,  9,  42,  44,  46,  69.  49. 

27.  Ibid.,  21,  67,  382,  20,  29 ;  see  also  von        50. 
Raumer,  491-496;   and  Grund,  II,        51. 
70-71. 

28.  Benjamin  B.  Kendrick  and  Alex  M.        52. 
Arnett,  The  South  Looks  at  Its  Past, 

69.  53. 

29.  John  S.  C.  Abbott,  Slavery,  North 

and  South,  178-179.  54. 

30.  Charleston  Mercury  and  Charleston 
Courier,  July  5,  6,  and  7,  1845.  55. 

31.  Calhoun   to   James   H.   Hammond, 
Feb.  18,  1837,  Correspondence,  367. 

32.  Calhoun    to    William    C.    Dawson,        56. 
Nov.  24,  1835,  Correspondence,  349-        57. 
351 ;  and  to  A.  S.  Clayton,  Nov.  24, 
1835,  ibid.,  352.  58. 

33.  Calhoun   to   Duff  Green,  Aug.  30, 
1835,  Correspondence,  344-346. 

34.  Frances  Trollope,  97.  59. 

35.  Ibid.,  161. 

36.  Thurlow   Weed,   Autobiography,    I, 
143. 

37.  Dave  G.  Sloan,  Fogy  Days,   Then       60. 
and  Now,  73-74. 

38.  Calhoun  to  James  E.  Colhoun,  Nov.       61. 
11,  1836,  Correspondence,  364;  Sept. 

2,  1836,  ibid.,  363;  Sept  19,  1836, 
ibid.,  363;  to  William  C.  Dawson,       62. 
Nov.  22,  1835,  ibid.,  349;  to  James 
Edward    Colhoun,    Oct.    27,    1837, 
ibid.,  381.  63. 

39.  Calhoun  to   Duff   Green,   July  27, 
1837,  Correspondence,  374-375.  64. 


Calhoun  to  J.  S.  Williams,  Oct.  17, 
1835,  Correspondence,  347;  to  F. 
Carter,  Nov.  26,  1835,  ibid.,  353 ;  to 
Robert  Young  Hayne,  Nov.  17, 1838, 
ibid.,  451. 

Calhoun  to  Hayne,  Correspondence, 
451. 

Calhoun  to  Sidney  Breese,  July  27, 
1839,  Correspondence,  430. 
Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria   Clemson, 
Nov.  21,  1846,  Correspondence,  711- 
712. 

Fort  Hill  tradition;  Basil  Hall,  Trav- 
els in  North  America,  II,  280;  and 
Nichols,  I,  181-182;  Lyell,  II,  104- 
105. 

Calhoun  to  Thomas  Clemson,  Dec. 
13,   1845,  Correspondence,  674. 
Calhoun  to  Mrs.  John  C.  Calhoun, 
Nov.  29,  1815,  Correspondence,  129. 
Marryat,  130;   Hall,  II,  94;  Lyell, 
n,  163-164;  and  Calhoun  to  F.  H. 
Elmore,    Nov.    24,    1840,    Calhoun 
Papers,  Clemson  College. 
Nichols,  II,  72,  15;  I,  120;  Marryat, 
130. 

Hall,  94. 

Frances  Trollope,  34;  Marryat,  125. 
Nichols,  H,  147,  15;  I,  120,  221- 
223. 

Lyell,  II,  122-123 ;  Frances  Trollope, 
38;  and  Nichols,  II,  109. 
Sarah  M.  Maury,  The  Statesmen  of 
America,  345-346. 

Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Colhoun, 
July  2,  1846,  Correspondence,  698. 
J.  Hamilton  Eckenrode,  The  Ran- 
dolphs,   249,    251;    Varina    Howell 
Davis,  Jefferson  Davis,  I,  207. 
American  Review,  Jan.  1848. 
Calhoun  to  J.  L.  M.  Curry,  Sept  14, 
1846,  Correspondence,  725-72B. 
Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Colhoun, 
July  2,  1846,  Correspondence,  698- 
699. 

Calhoun  to  Thomas  Clemson,  Oct. 
1845,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson  Col- 
lege; Sarah  M.  Maury,  378;  Varina 
Howell  Davis,  II,  274. 
Calhoun  to  Abbott  Lawrence,  May 
13,  1845,  Correspondence,  654-655. 
Calhoun  to  Thomas  Clemson,  Oc- 
tober, 1845,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clem- 
son College. 

Calhoun  to  Duff  Green,  Oct.  18, 
1845,  Duff  Green  Papers,  Library 
of  Congress. 

New    Orleans    Jeffersonian    Repub- 
lican. 
Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Colhoun, 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  xxiv  AND  xxv 


565 


Jan.  16,  1846,  Correspondence,  675- 
677. 

65.  Fredericksburg       (Va.)       Recorder, 
quoted  in  Lynchburg  (Va.)  Repub- 
lican, Oct.  14,  19,  1845. 

66.  James  Hamilton  to   Calhoun,  Oct. 


12,  1846,  Correspondence,  1090-1092 ; 
and  Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Col- 
houn,  Jan.  16,  1846,  ibid.,  676. 
67.  Charleston  Mercury;  also  Calhoun 
to  Andrew  P.  Calhoun,  Jan.  16, 1846, 
Correspondence,  677. 


XXV.    A  NATION-SIZED  AMERICAN 


1.  Sarah  M.  Maury,  The  Statesmen  of       30. 
America,  375. 

2.  Ibid.,  350,  382-384. 

3.  E.  F.  Ellet,  Court  Circles  of  the  Re-        31. 
public,  309.  32. 

4.  Ibid.,  310-311,  321-323. 

5.  Varina  Howell  Davis,  Jefferson  Da- 
vis, I,  416-418.  33. 

6.  Ibid.,  I,  253-255.  34. 

7.  Ibid.,  I,  214. 

8.  A.  J.  Beveridge,  Abraham  Lincoln 
(Standard  Library  Edition),  II,   5. 

9.  Sarah  M.  Maury,  384-385.  35. 

10.  Ibid.,  376. 

11.  W.  D.  Porter,  quoted  in  The  Caro- 
lina    Tribute     to     Calhoun,     401;        36. 
Holmes,  30. 

12.  Mary    Bates,   The   Private   Life   of 
John  C.  Calhoun,  25.  37. 

13.  John  Temple  Graves,  The  Fighting 
South,  41.  38. 

14.  Sarah    M.   Maury,   381;   Nathaniel 
Willis,  Hurry-Graphs,  180-181.  -  39. 

15.  Sarah  M.  Maury,  380.  40. 

16.  Porter,  in  The  Carolina  Tribute  to 
Calhoun,  400-401. 

17.  Claude   M.   Fuess,  Daniel  Webster,        41. 
II,  151,  155. 

18.  Edinburgh   Review,   LXXXII,    240.        42. 

19.  Eva  E.  Dye,  McLaughUn  and  Old 
Oregon,  275. 

20.  Ibid.t  13.  43. 

21.  William     Barrows,     Oregon:     The        44. 
Struggle  for  Possession,  195. 

22.  Ibid.,  246. 

23.  Eva  E.  Dye,  239,  253-254. 

24.  Carl   Sandburg,  Abraham   Lincoln:        45. 
The  Prairie  Years  (Blue  Ribbon  Edi- 
tion), 22. 

25.  Eva  E.  Dye,  261,  284.  46. 

26.  Sarah  M.  Maury,  379,  376. 

27.  Calhoun,  speech  on  'The  Treaty  of       47. 
Washington,'  Aug.  28,  1842,  Works, 

IV,  212-238,  passim;  on  The  Oregon 

BiU,'  Jan.  24,  1843,  ibid.,  IV,  238-        48. 

258,  passim. 

28.  Calhoun  to  John  W.  Mason,  May       49. 
30,   1845,   Correspondence,  659-663. 

29.  Eva  E.  Dye,  234;  Calhoun  to  James 

H.  Hammond,  Jan.  23,  1846,  Cor-        50. 
respondence,  678. 


Calhoun,  speech  on  the  'Treaty  of 
Washington,'  Aug.  28,  1842,  Works, 
IV,  212-238. 

James  Knox  Polk,  Diary,  II,  283. 
Calhoun  to   Anna  Maria   Clemson, 
May  22,  1845,  Correspondence,  656- 
657. 

Sarah  M.  Maury,  374. 
Calhoun    to   Thomas    G.    Clemson, 
Jan.  29,  1846,  Correspondence,  680; 
idem,  March   23,    1846,   ibid.,   685- 
687. 

Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria  Clemson, 
March  26,  1846,  Correspondence, 
684-685. 

Calhoun  on  'Giving  Notice  to  Great 
Britain,'  March  16,  1846,  Works,  IV, 
258-290,  passim. 

Holmes  in  The  Carolina  Tribute  to 
Calhoun,  230. 

Calhoun  to  James  Hammond,  Jan. 
23,  1846,  Correspondence,  678. 
Polk,  I,  344. 

Calhoun  to  Thomas  G.  Clemson, 
April  25,  1846,  Correspondence,  688- 
689. 

Porter,  in  The  Carolina  Tribute  to 
Calhoun,  401. 

Calhoun  to  Thomas  G.  Clemson, 
June  11,  1846,  Correspondence, 
697. 

Sarah  M.  Maury,  370-380,  passim. 
Calhoun    to    Thomas    G.    Clemson, 
July  11,  1846,  Correspondence,  700- 
701;    to    James    Edward    Colhoun, 
July  29,  1846,  ibid.,  701-702. 
Calhoun    to    Andrew   Pickens    Cal- 
houn, July   14,   1846,   Calhoun  Pa- 
pers, South  Caroliniana  Library. 
Hermann  von  Hoist,  John  C.  Cal- 
houn, 276-277. 

Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Colhoun, 
July  2,  1846,  Correspondence,  698- 
699. 

Idem,  May  29,  1846,  Correspondence, 
692-694. 

Calhoun  to  H.  W.  Conner,  May  15, 
1846,  Calhoun  Papers,  Library  of 
Congress. 

Christopher  Hollis,  The  American 
Heresy,  135. 


S66 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  xxv  AND  xxvi 


51.  The   New  York  Journal   of   Com- 
merce, quoted  in  the  Charleston  Mer- 
cury for  March  23,  1846,  called  Cal- 
houn  'among  the  greatest  statesmen 
of  the  age.' 

52.  Calhoun    to    Thomas    G.    Clemson, 
June  11,  1846,  Correspondence,  697. 
Charleston  Mercury,  May  19,  June 
17  and  20,  1846. 

53.  Charleston  Mercury  and  Charleston 
Courier,  issues  for  July  5,  6,  and  7, 
1846.   See   also   James   Gregorie   to 
Calhoun,  May  23,  1846,  Correspond- 
ence, 1083-1085 ;  James  Hamilton  to 
Calhoun,  Oct.  12,  1846,  ibid.,  1090- 
1096. 


54.  Calhoun  to  Thomas  G.  Clemson,  un- 
dated, Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson  Col- 
lege;  and  to  Andrew   Pickens  Cal- 
houn, July  14,  1846,  Calhoun  Papers, 
South  Caroliniana  Library. 

55.  James  Gregorie  to  Calhoun,  May  23, 
1846,    Correspondence,    1084;    also 
Calhoun   to   Andrew    Pickens    Cal- 
houn, Dec.  1,  1847,  ibid.,  741. 

56.  Allen  Tate,  Stonewall  Jackson,  37- 
38. 

57.  Calhoun   to   Andrew    Pickens    Cal- 
houn, May  14, 1846,  Correspondence, 
690-691;    and    Calhoun   to    H.   W. 
Conner,    May     15,    1846,    Calhoun 
Papers,  Library  of  Congress. 


XXVI.    THE  RISING  STORM 


1.  Oliver  Dyer,  Great  Senators  of  the 
United  States,  35. 

2.  Calhoun  to  H.  W.  Conner,  Jan.  14,        17. 
1847,    Calhoun   Papers,   Library    of 
Congress.  18. 

3.  Calhoun,  Works,  IV,  502-503. 

4.  Calhoun    to    Andrew    Pickens    Cal-        19. 
houn,  Jan.  16,  1846,  Calhoun  Papers, 
South  Caroliniana  Library. 

5.  Calhoun  to  John  Calhoun  Clemson,        20. 
December  27,  1846,  Correspondence,        21. 
740. 

6.  Anna  Maria   Clemson  to  Calhoun, 
undated,  in  Calhoun  Papers,  Clem-        22. 
son  College.  23. 

7.  Calhoun   to   Anna  Maria   Clemson,        24. 
Dec.  27,  1846,  Correspondence,  715- 

716.  25. 

8.  Calhoun   to    Duff    Green,    Nov.    9, 
1847,  Correspondence,  740. 

9.  Calhoun,  speech  on  'The  Amendment        26. 
to  the  Oregon  Bill,'  Aug.  12,  1848, 
Works,  IV,  530;  also  to  Anna  Maria        27. 
Clemson,  March  7, 1848,  Correspond- 
ence, 744-745.  28. 

10.  Varina  Howell  Davis,  Jefferson  Da-        29. 
vis,  I,  407. 

11.  Calhoun    to    Thomas    G.    Clemson,        30. 
January   30,   1847,   Correspondence, 

111. 

12.  Henry  Clay,  public  address  in  Lex-       31. 
ington,  Kentucky,  Nov.  13,  1847. 

13.  A.  J.   Beveridge,  Abraham  Lincoln 
(Standard  Library  Edition),  II,  125- 

127;  135-136.  32. 

14-  Calhoun,  Works,  TV,  413,  420.  33. 

15.  Calhoun,  speech  on  "Three  Million 

Bffl,'  Feb.  9,  1847,  Works,  IV,  304-        34. 
305,  317,  319-320,  323.  35. 

16.  Calhoun    to   Thomas    G.    Clemson, 


Feb.  17,  1847,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clem- 
son College. 

Calhoun,    'Reply    to    Mr.    Turney,' 
Feb.  12,  1847,  Works,  IV,  328. 
Calhoun,    'Reply    to    Mr.    Benton,' 
Feb.  24,  1847,  Works,  IV,  362-364. 
Calhoun,    speech    on    'The    Oregon 
Bill,'  June  27,  1848,  Works,  IV,  479- 
511. 

Ibid.,  483-496. 

Calhoun,  'Resolutions  on  the  Slave 
Question,'  Feb.  19,  1847,  Works,  IV, 
348-349. 

Calhoun,  Works,  IV,  347-348. 
Ibid.,  IV,  361. 

Thomas  Hart  Benton,  Thirty  Years' 
View,  II,  697. 

Calhoun,  speech  on  'The  Oregon 
Bill,'  June  27,  1848,  Works,  IV,  479- 
511. 

James  Knox  Polk,  Diary,  IV,  17-22, 
297-300. 

Calhoun,  Works,  HI,  184,  180;   II, 
630,  631;  IV,  361. 
Ibid.,  Ill,  190. 

Calhoun,  Works,  IV,  505;  also  Ben- 
ton,  H,  697. 

Calhoun,  speech  on  'The  Oregon 
Bill,'  June  27,  1848,  Works,  IV,  494- 
495,  507  ff. 

Calhoun  to  Andrew  Pickens  Cal- 
houn, undated,  summer  of  1848, 
Calhoun  Papers,  South  Caroliniana 
Library. 

Polk,  IV,  72-74. 

Benjamin  F.  Perry,  Reminiscences  of 
Public  Men,  319. 

Charleston  Mercury,  Dec.  8,  1848. 
Calhoun   to   Anna  Maria   Clemson, 
Aug.  13,  1847,  Correspondence,  736. 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  xxvn  AND  xxvin 


567 


XXVH.    THE  STATESMAN  AND  THE  MAN 


1.  Oliver  Dyer,  Great  Senators  of  the 
United  States,  70-76,  passim. 

2.  Varina  Howell  Davis,  Jefferson  Da- 
vis, I,  282. 

3.  Benjamin  F.  Perry,  Reminiscences  of 
Public  Men,  65-67. 

4.  John      Wentworth,      Congressional 
Reminiscences,  33-35. 

•  5.  Harriet  Martineau,  A  Retrospect  of 
Western  Travel,  I,  165;  Dyer,  286, 
291-292. 

6.  Dyer,  198-202. 

7.  Francis  Grund,  Aristocracy  in  Amer- 
ica, II,  215. 

8.  Varina  Howell  Davis,  I,  270. 

9.  Wentworth,  48. 

10.  Dyer,  216. 

11.  Varina  Howell  Davis,  I,  272-273. 

12.  Dyer,  291-292. 

13.  Ibid.,  150-152. 

14.  Ibid.,  170-172. 

15.  Harriet  Martineau,  I,  243-246. 

16.  Dyer,  186. 

17.  Manuscript    reminiscences    of    Cal- 
houn  by   James   Edward   Colhoun, 
April,  1850,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clem- 
son  College. 

18.  Dyer,  187. 

19.  Hermann  von  Hoist,  John  C.  Cal- 
houn, 5. 


20.  Charles  C.  Pinckney,  'Calhoun  From 
a  Southern  Standpoint/  in  Lippin- 
cott's  Monthly   (July,  1898). 

21.  Wentworth,  7,  21-22,  20. 

22.  Webster  quoted  in  Lyon  Tyler's  The 
Letters  and  Times  of  the  Tylers,  II, 
153 ;  Venable  in  The  CaroUna  Trib- 
ute to  Calhoun,  76;  and  Robert  B. 
Rhett,  quoted  in  Charles  C.  Pinck- 
ney's  sketch. 

23.  Wentworth,  22. 

24.  Ibid. 

25.  Ibid.,  20. 

26.  New  York  Herald,  April  1,  1850. 

27.  Wentworth,  25;  Henry,  in  The  Car- 
oUna Tribute  to  Calhoun,  238. 

28.  Calhoun  to  Franklin  H.  Elmore,  Oct. 
16,  1848,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clemson 
College. 

29.  Perry,  49. 

30.  Calhoun   to   Armistead   Burt,   Jan. 
24,  1838,  Correspondence,  389. 

31.  J.  J.   Crittenden   to    Alexander    H. 
Stephens,    Sept.    4,    1848,    Stephens 
Papers,  Library  of  Congress;   Bev- 
erly   Tucker    to    James   Hammond, 
March  13,  1847,  Hammond  Papers, 
Library   of   Congress;   see  also   en- 
tries   in    Hammond's    journal    for 
August,  1845,  Library  of  Congress. 


XXVJUUL.    NO  COMPROMISE  WITH  DESTINY 


1.  Calhoun,       'Charleston       Address,* 
March  9,  1847,  Works,  IV,  3. 

2.  Calhoun    to    Thomas    G.    Clemson, 
March    12,    1847,    Correspondence, 
720. 

3.  Calhoun,       'Charleston       Address,' 
March  9,  1847,  Works,  IV,  3ff. 

4.  Calhoun  to  Duff  Green,  March  9, 
1847,  Correspondence,  718-719. 

5.  James  Knox  Polk,  Diary,  II,  458- 
459. 

6.  Hammond    to    Simms,    March    21, 
1847,  quoted  in  Herman  V.  Ames, 
'John  C.  Calhoun  and  the  Secession 
Movement  of  1850,'  in  the  Proceed- 
ings of   the   American   Antiquarian 
Society,  April  1919,  19-50;  also  Ul- 
rich  B.  Phillips,  'The  Correspondence 
of    Robert   Toombs,   Alexander   H. 
Stephens,  and  Howell  Cobb,'  Annual 
Report  of  the  American  Historical 
Association    (1911),    139-196. 

7.  Calhoun,  speech  on  'Amendment  to 


the    Oregon    Bill,'    Aug.    12,    1848, 
Works,  IV,  531. 

8.  Perry,  61;  Jefferson  Davis  in  North 
American  Review,  CXLV,  2 59  if. 

9.  Calhoun,  Works,  TV,  532. 

10.  J.  L.  M.  Curry,  'Principles,  Utter- 
ances and  Acts  of  John  C.  Calhoun, 
Promotive  of  the  True  Union  of  the 
States,'    in    University    of    Chicago 
Record,  III,  101-105. 

11.  Calhoun,  'Speech  on  Abolition  Peti- 
tions/ Feb.  6,  1837,  Works,  II,  p. 
630. 

12.  John      Wentworth,      Congressional 
Reminiscences,  24. 

13.  Varina  Howell  Davis,  Jefferson  Da- 
vis, I,  365. 

14.  Oliver  Dyer,  Great  Senators  of  the 
United  States,  289-292. 

15.  Ibid.;  also  Calhoun,  'Speech  on  Ter- 
ritorial Governments,'  Feb.  24,  1849, 
Works,  IV,  535-542. 

16.  See    letter    of    Calhoun    to    Percy 


568 


NOTES:  CHAPTER  xxvni 


Walker,  Oct.  23,  1847,  in  National        35. 
Intelligencer,    June    27,    1855;    also 
Works,  IV,  534.  36. 

17.  Nathaniel  Willis,  Hurry -graphs,  180- 

181.  37. 

18.  Abraham  Venable,  in  The  Carolina 
Tribute  to  Calhoun,  36. 

19.  Quoted  in  New  York  Herald,  April        38. 

1,  1850. 

20.  Address,  quoted  in  Charleston  Cour- 
ier, Feb.  1,  1849.  39. 

21.  John    S.    Jenkins,    John    Caldwell 
Calhoun,  453. 

22.  Mann,  quoted  in  Christopher  Hollis,        40. 
The  American  Heresy,  139. 

23.  Nathaniel  Wright  Stephenson,  'Cal- 
houn and  the  Divine  Right  of  the        41. 
Majority,'    Scripps    College   Papers, 
Claremont   (California,  1930),  51.  42. 

24.  Letter  of  Beverly  Tucker  to  James 
Hammond,  March  25,  1850,  in  Wil- 
liam and  Mary   Quarterly,  XVIII,        43. 
44-46. 

25.  Stephenson,  in  Scripps  College  Pa- 
pers, 32,  34.  44. 

26.  Ibid.,    51;    Calhoun    to    Mrs.    St. 
George     Campbell,    in    manuscript 
memoirs  of  R.  M.  T.  Hunter;  and        45. 
William  and  Mary  Quarterly,  XVIH, 

46;  see  also  Mentor,  V,  1    (March 

15,  1917),  and  Hollis,  140.  46. 

27.  See  Henry  Footed  War  of  the  Re- 
bellion,    79-82;     Robert     Toombs, 
quoted  in  Congressional  Globe,  31st        47. 
Congress,  1st  Session;  Louis  Pendle- 

ton,  Alexander  H.  Stephens,  96-116, 
passim;  Richmond  Enquirer,  Feb. 
12,  1850.  48. 

28.  Robert  Toombs  to  John  J.  Critten- 
den,  Jan.  22,  1849,  in  Annual  Re- 
port   of    the    American    Historical        49. 
Association  (1911),  139-196,  passim; 

also  Hollis,  137.  50. 

29.  Polk,   Jan.    16,    1849,    IV,    285-292, 
passim.  51. 

30.  Calhoun    to    Thomas    G.    Clemson, 
Jan.  20, 1849,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clem- 
son  College.  52. 

31.  Thomas  Metcalfe  to  J.  J.  Crittenden, 
Jan.  23,  1849,  and  Robert  Toombs 
to  Crittenden,  Jan.  22,  1849,  Crit- 
tenden   Papers,    Library    of    Con-        53. 
gress. 

32.  Calhoun  to  Henry  W.  Conner,  Feb.        54. 

2,  1849,  Calhoun  Papers,  Library  of 
Congress.  55. 

33.  Robert  B.  Rhett  quoted  hi  The  Car- 
olina Tribute  to  Calhoun,  369. 

34.  Roy  Meredith,  Mr.  Lincoln's  Camera        56. 
Man,  24-25, 


Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria  Clemson, 
April  10,  1849,  Correspondence,  763. 
Idem,  June  15,  1849,  Correspond- 
ence, 767. 

Idem;  also  Calhoun  to  Thomas  G. 
Clemson,  June,  1849,  Calhoun  Pa- 
pers, Clemson  College. 
Calhoun  to  J.  R.  Mathews,  June  20, 
1849,  Calhoun  Papers,  Library  of 
Congress. 

Henry  J.  Foote,  quoted  in  Congres- 
sional Globe,  32d  Congress,  1st  Ses- 
sion, 134-135. 

Calhoun  to  J.  R.  Mathews,  Jan.  7, 
1837,  Calhoun  Papers,  Library  of 
Congress. 

Calhoun  to  John  R.  Means,  April 
13,  1849,  Correspondence,  765. 
Calhoun  to  J.  R.  Mathews,  June  20, 
1849,   Calhoun  Papers,  Library    of 
Congress. 

Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria  Clemson, 
June  15,  1849,  Correspondence,  767- 
768. 

See  Columbia  (S.  C.)  Transcript, 
Aug.  6,  1851 ;  also  New  York  Herald, 
April  1,  1850. 

Calhoun  to  Thomas  G.  Clemson, 
June,  1849,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clem- 
son College. 

Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria  Clemson, 
July,  1848,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clem- 
son College. 

Calhoun  to  Thomas  G.  Clemson, 
Dec.  8,  1849,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clem- 
son College,  partly  quoted  in  Cor- 
respondence, 776. 

Calhoun  to  Thomas  G.  Clemson, 
Oct.  14,  1849,  Calhoun  Papers,  Clem- 
son College. 

Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria  Clemson, 
June  15,  1849,  Correspondence,  767. 
Calhoun  to  Armistead  Burt,  Nov.  5, 
1849,  Correspondence,  773-774. 
Calhoun  to  Anna  Maria  Clemson, 
Dec.  31,  1849,  Correspondence,  776- 
777. 

D.  J.  Knotts  to  W.  E.  Barton,  Sept. 
1,  1919,  quoted  in  W.  E.  Barton, 
The  Paternity  of  Abraham  Lincoln, 
135. 

Varina  Howell  Davis,  I,  282 ;  Oliver 
Dyer,  289. 

Washington  Daily  Union,  Aug.  23, 
1849. 

Thomas  L.  Nichols,  Forty  Years  of 
American  Life,  n,  184;  E.  F.  Ellet, 
Court  Circles  of  the  Republic,  408. 
Congressional  Debates,  XTEI,  Part  1 
(1836-1837),  5. 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  xxvm  AND  xxrx 


569 


57.  Wentworth,  25-26. 

58.  New  York  Herald,  March  6,  1850; 
Nathan    Sargent,   Public   Men   and 
Events,  H,  363. 

59.  Sargent,  II,  363. 

60.  The  Liberator,  March  22,  1850. 

61.  Washington  Daily   Union,  Dec.  25, 
1849;  Dec.  23,  1849. 

62.  Columbia  (S.  C.)   Telegraph;  Rich- 
mond Enquirer;  see  issues  for  1849- 
1850. 

63.  See  Pendleton,   94-116,  passim,  for 
statement  of  Alexander  H.  Stephens's 
general  sentiments. 

64.  Calhoun    to   Andrew    Pickens    Cal- 
houn,  Jan.  12,  1850,  Correspondence, 
780. 

65.  Idem. 

66.  W.  H.  Parmalee,  'Recollections  of  an 
Old  Stager,'  in  Harpers  New  Monthly 
Magazine   (Oct.  1873),  758. 

67.  Calhoun   to   James   H.   Hammond, 
Feb.  16,  1850,  Correspondence,  781. 

68.  Calhoun    to    Thomas    G.    Clemson, 
Feb.  6,   1850,  Correspondence,   781. 

69.  Philadelphia  Public  Ledger,  Feb.  18, 
1850. 

70.  Ben:  Perley  Poore,  Reminiscences,  I, 
363-364;  Carl  Schurz,  Henry  Clay, 
II,  364. 

71.  Henry  Clay,  Works,  IX,  397-398. 

72.  Calhoun  to  James  Hammond,  Jan. 
4,  1850,  Correspondence,  779. 

73.  William  Rutherford,  Jr.,  to  HoweU 


Cobb,  April  16,  1850,  Annual  Report 
of  the  American  Historical  Associa- 
tion (1911) ;  also  Jefferson  Davis  in 
North  American  Review,  CXLV,  246. 

74.  Elizabeth  Cutting,  Jefferson  Davis: 
Political  Soldier,  81. 

75.  Philadelphia  Public  Ledger,  Feb.  18, 
1850. 

76.  Charles  A.  Dana  in  New  York  Trib- 
une, March  6,  1850. 

77.  Congressional  Directory,  H.  V.  Hills, 
ed.,  1850. 

78.  Sargent,  H,  363. 

79.  Congressional  Globe,  March  4,  1850, 
v.    21,   31st   Congress,    1st   Session, 
455  ff. 

80.  G.  W.  Julian,  Political  Recollections, 
87 ;  Wentworth,  23 ;  New  York  Trib- 
une, March  6,  1850. 

81.  Hollis,  141. 

82.  Ulrich  B.  Phillips,  ed.,  *The  Corre- 
spondence of  Robert  Toombs,  Alex- 
ander   H.    Stephens,    and    Howell 
Cobb,'    in    Annual   Report    of    the 
American      Historical      Association 
(1911),  139-196;  also  Cobb  to  James 
Buchanan,  June  17,  1849,  Buchanan 
Papers,  Library  of  Congress. 

83.  William  Rutherford,  Jr.,  to  Howell 
Cobb,  April  16,  1850;  also  Philadel- 
phia Public  Ledger,  April  2,  1850. 

84.  Calhoun,    speech    on    'The    Slavery 
Question,'  March  4,  1850,  Works,  IV, 
542-573,  passim. 


XXIX.    WHEN  ROME  SURVIVED 


1.  Nathan    Sargent,   Public   Men   and 
Events,  II,  363. 

2.  Ben:    Perley   Poore,   Reminiscences, 
I,  366;  Philadelphia  Public  Ledger, 
March  5,  1850. 

3.  New  York  Herald,  March  5,  1850. 

4.  Varina     Howell     Davis,     Jefferson 
Davis,  I,  458. 

5.  Philip  Hone,  Diary,  March  5,  1850, 
375. 

6.  Philadelphia  Public  Ledger,  March 
7,  1850. 

7.  New  York  Herald,  March  5,  March 
6,  1850. 

8.  North  Carolina  Standard,  Wheeling 
(Va.)     Gazette,     MaysviUe     (Ky.) 
Eagle,  March  7,  1850. 

9.  Calhoun  to  H.  W.  Conner,  March  4, 
1850,   Calhoun   Papers,   Library    of 
Congress. 

10.  Varina  Howell  Davis,  I,  457. 

11.  New  York  Herald,  March  6,  1850. 


12.  Calhoun,  'Reply   to   Foote,'   March 
5,  1850,  Works,  IV,  574-578. 

13.  Richard     Gralle",     reminiscences     of 
Calhoun,    in    Cralle*     Papers     (un- 
dated), Library  of  Congress. 

14.  Varina  Howell  Davis,  I,  458. 

15.  Webster,  in  The  Carolina  Tribute  to 
Calhoun,  11-12. 

16.  Peter    Harvey,    Reminiscences    and 
Anecdotes  of  Daniel  Webster,  231. 

17.  Jefferson  Davis,  in  North  American 
Review  (1887),  259. 

18.  Harvey,  219. 

19.  Ibid.,  220-222. 

20.  Varina  Howell  Davis,  I,  461. 

21.  New  York  Tribune,  April  3,  1850. 

22.  Congressional  Globe,  March  7,  1850, 
v.  21,  31st  Congress,  1st  Session,  483. 

23.  Boston  Post,  quoted  in  Washington 
Daily  Union,  March  15,  1850. 

24.  Charleston     Mercury,     March     16, 
1850. 


570 


NOTES:  CHAPTER  xxix 


25.  Congressional  Globe,  March  7,  1850, 
v.   21,   31st   Congress,    1st   Session, 

483.  50. 

26.  Calhoun  to  H.  W.  Conner,  March 
18,   1850,   Calhoun  Papers,  Library 
of  Congress. 

27.  New  York  Herald,  March  8,  1850.  51. 

28.  Calhoun    to    Thomas    G.    Clemson, 
March    10,    1850,    Correspondence, 

783.  52. 

29.  New  York  Herald,  March  16,  1850.        53. 

30.  Webster,  in  The  Carolina,  Tribute  to 
.  Calhoun,  11. 

31.  New  York  Tribune,  April  3,  1850;        54. 
George  P.  Fisher,  Webster  and  Cal-        55. 
houn  in  the  Compromise  Debate  of 
1850,'    Scribner's    Magazine    (May,       56. 
1905);    Webster,   in    The   Carolina 
Tribute  to  Calhoun,  11. 

32.  Rusk,  in  The  Carolina  Tribute  to        57. 
Calhoun,  13. 

33.  John    S.    Jenkins,    John    Caldwell 
Calhoun,  441. 

34.  New  York  Herald,  April  1,  1850.  58. 

35.  Ibid.,  March  16,  1850. 

36.  Congressional    Globe,    v.    21,    31st 
Congress,   1st   Session,  464ff.;  New       59. 
York  Herald,  March  16,  1850. 

37.  New  York  Herald,  March  16,  1850;        60. 
also  The  Liberator,  March  15,  1850. 

38.  Philadelphia  PubUc  Ledger,  March        61. 
8,  1850. 

39.  Mary   Bates,    The  Private  Life   of       62. 
John  C.  Calhoun,  14. 

40.  New  York  Herald,  March  23,  1850.        63. 

41.  Ibid.,  March  21,  March  26,  March 

28,  1850.  64. 

42.  Calhoun  to   Anna  Maria   Clemson, 
March     7,     1847,     Correspondence,        65. 
744-745;  John  Perry  Pritchett,  Cal- 
hotin  and  His  Defense  of  the  South,        66. 
20. 

43.  Calhoun   to    Thomas    G.    Clemson, 
March    10,    1850,    Correspondence,       67. 
784. 

44.  See  Arthur  Stryon,  The   Cast-Iron        68. 
Man,  355;  also  J.  B,  Curry,  'Prin- 
ciples, Utterances  and  Acts  of  John 

C.  Calhoun,  Promotive  of  the  True       69. 
Union  of  the  States,'  in  University 
of  Chicago  Record,  III,  101-105. 

45.  W.  H.  Parmalee,  'Recollections  of  an        70. 
Old  Stager,1  Harper's  New  Monthly 
Magazine  (Oct.  1873),  758.  71. 

46.  Christopher    Hollis,    The    American        72. 
Heresy,  140.  73. 

47.  New  York  Herald,  March  16,  March 

17,  1850.  74. 

48.  Ibid.,  March  25,  1850. 

49.  Calhoun  to  Andrew  Butler,  March 


27,  1850,  Calhoun  Papers,  Library  of 

Congress. 

Philadelphia  PubUc  Ledger,  March 

23,  1850;  G.  S.  Morehead  to  J.  J. 

Crittenden,  March  31,   1850,   Crit- 

tenden  Papers,  Library  of  Congress. 

Manuscript  reminiscences  of  James 

E.  Colhoun,  April,  1850,  in  Calhoun 

Papers,  Clemson  College. 

Bates,  20. 

Richard    Cralle"?s    reminiscences    of 

Calhoun,  CraU6  Papers,  Library  of 

Congress. 

Bates,  22. 

Philadelphia  Public  Ledger,  March 

23,  1850. 

Walter  Miller,  'Calhoun  as  a  Lawyer 

and  Statesman/  The  Green  Bag,  XI, 

330. 

Josephine  Seaton,  WilUam  Winston 

Seaton,  158;  also,  John  C.  Proctor, 

ed.,  Washington,  Past  and  Present, 

II,  826-827. 

Robert  Barnwell  Rhett  to  Calhoun, 

Dec.  8,  1843,  Correspondence,  899- 

900. 

Abraham  Venable,  hi  The  Carolina 

Tribute  to  Calhoun,  319. 

Washington  Daily   Union,  April  3, 

1850. 

James  Hammond,  in  The  Carolina 

Tribute  to  Calhoun,  319. 

Robert    Barnwell    Rhett,    in    The 

Carolina  Tribute  to  Calhoun,  370. 

Crall6's    reminiscences    of    Calhoun, 

CraUe"  Papers,  Library  of  Congress. 

Abraham  Venable,  in  The  Carolina 

Tribute  to  Calhoun,  37. 

Charleston     Mercury,     March     31, 

1850. 

New  York  Herald,  March  31,  1850; 

Philadelphia  PubUc  Ledger,  April  2, 

1850. 

George    Fisher,    Life    of   Benjamin 

SilUman,  II,  97. 

Alexander   H.   Stephens,   quoted   in 

The   Carolina  Tribute  to   Calhoun, 

88-91. 

Reminiscences  of  Calhoun  by  Anna 

Maria   Clemson,  copy  in   Clemson 

College  Papers. 

Ibid.,  also  Alexander  Butler,  in  The 

Carolina  Tribute  to  Calhoun,  1-8. 

Ibid.,  Henry  Clay  quoted,  9-10. 

Varina  Howell  Davis,  I,  461-462. 

Webster,   quoted   in    The   Carolina 

Tribute  to  Calhoun,  11-12. 

New  York  Tribune,  April  3,  1850; 

Washington  Daily   Union,  April   3, 

1850;  W.  H.  Parmalee,  758;  Phila- 


NOTES:  CHAPTERS  xxix  AND  xxx 


571 


delphia  Public  Ledger,  April  3,  1850; 
Oliver  Dyer,  Great  Senators  of  the 
United  States,  213. 

75.  Varina  Howell  Davis,  I,  462;  Mary 
Bates,  28. 

76.  'Report     of     the     Committee     of 
Twenty-Five,'      in      The     Carolina 
Tribute  to  Calhoun,  39-51. 

77.  Ibid.,  51. 

78.  Ibid.,  Venable  quoted,  76. 

79.  Jenkins,  444. 

80.  The   Carolina   Tribute  to  Calhoun, 


Venable     quoted,      80-81;      Porter 
quoted,  383. 

81.  Ibid.,    'Narrative    of    the    Funeral 
Honors,'  65-88,  passim. 

82.  Mary  Bates,  28. 

83.  Varina  Howell  Davis,  I,  463. 

84.  Fred    A.    Porcher,    quoted    in    The 
Carolina   Tribute   to   Calhoun,   271, 
281;  also  Pritchett,  20. 

85.  Jonathan     Daniels,     A     Southerner 
Discovers  the  South,  330. 

86.  Hollis,  145. 


XXX.    MINORITY  CHAMPION 


1.  Claude   M.   Fuess,   Daniel  Webster, 
II,  228. 

2.  Ibid.,  228. 

3.  Hamilton    Basso,    Mainstream,    56;        20. 
John  P.  Pritchett,  in  Calhoun  and 

His  Defense  of  the  South,  and  Chris- 
topher   Hollis,    hi     The    American        21. 
Heresy,  also  give  full  discussions  of 
Calhoun's  political  theory.  22. 

4.  Hermann  von  Hoist,  John  C.  Cal-        23. 
houn,  346.  24. 

5.  James  Parton,  Famous  Americans  of        25. 
Recent  Times,  175. 

6.  Calhoun,  'Discourse  on  the  Constitu-        26. 
tion/  Works,  I,  301. 

7.  Ibid.,  112-113.  27. 

8.  Calhoun   to   Anna  Maria   Clemson, 
Nov.  21,  1846,  Correspondence,  712.        28. 

9.  John   Gunther,  Inside   USJ..,  Ellis 
Arnall  quoted,  775.  '  29. 

10.  Virginius  Dabney,  Below  the  Poto- 
mac, 291.  30. 

11.  Benjamin  B.  Kendrick,  The  Colonial       31. 
Status  of  the  South,  16. 

12.  Gunther,  673. 

13.  Report  on  Economic  Conditions  in        32. 
the  South   (pamphlet),  Franklin  D. 
Roosevelt  quoted,  1.  33. 

14.  Calhoun,   'Disquisition    on    Govern-        34. 
ment,'  Works,  I,  59. 

15.  Calhoun,   speech   on  'The   Revenue       35. 
Collection  Bill,'   Feb.   15,   16,   1833,        36. 
Works,  II,  234;  also  Frank  L.  Ows-        37. 
ley,  'Pillars  of  Agrarianism,'  Amer-       38. 
lean  Review,  March,  1935.  39. 

16.  Calhoun,   'Disquisition   on    Govern- 
ment,' Works,  I,  52-55. 

17.  Benjamin    F.   Perry,   Reminiscences 

of  Public  Men,  46;  Hollis,  144.  40. 

18.  J.  L.  M.  Curry,  'Principles,  Utter- 
ances, and  Acts  of  John  C.  Calhoun, 
Promotive  of  the  True  Union  of  the 
States,'  University  of  Chicago  Rec-       41. 
ord,  VI,  104ff. 

19.  Calhoun  to  James  Edward  Colhoun, 


quoted  in  letter  of  Alfred  Huger  to 
Isaac  S.  Nichols,  Feb.  18,  1869,  Cal- 
houn Papers,  Library  of  Congress. 
Calhoun,  'Discourse  on  the  Constitu- 
tion of  the  United  States,'  Works,  I, 
142. 

Calhoun,   'Disquisition   on    Govern- 
ment,' Works,  I,  14-15. 
Ibid.,  Works,  I,  12. 
Ibid.,  Works,  I,  15,  16. 
Ibid.,  Works,  I,  23. 
Calhoun,  'To  the  People  of  South 
Carolina,'  Works,  VI,  133. 
Calhoun,   'Disquisition   on   Govern- 
ment,' Works,  I,  55. 
John  C.  Coit,  quoted  in  The  Caro- 
lina Tribute  to  Calhoun,  181. 
Vernon    Parrington,    The    Colonial 
Mind,  298. 

Calhoun,   'Disquisition   on    Govern- 
ment,' Works,  I,  4. 
Ibid.,  Works,  I,  33-34. 
Vernon   Parrington,    The   Romantic 
Revolution  in  America,  70;  see  also 
Basso,  69. 

Herbert  Agar,  The  Pursuit  of  Hap- 
piness,  193. 
Basso,  58. 

Calhoun,   'Disquisition   on  Govern- 
ment,' Works,  I,  30. 
Ibid.,  Works,  I,  25, 
Ibid.,  Works,  I,  26,  27. 
Ibid.,  Works,  I,  17. 
Ibid.f  Works,  I,  55. 
Agar,    199;    also   Nathaniel  Wright 
Stephenson,  'Calhoun   and  the  Di- 
vine Right  of  the  Majority,'  Scripps 
College  Papers,  35. 
Charles    M.    Wiltse,    'Calhoun    and 
the  Modern  State,'   Virginia  Quar- 
terly Review  (Summer,  1937),  396- 
408,  passim;  Agar,  191. 
Calhoun    to    James    Edward    Col- 
houn, May   29,   1846,   Correspond- 
ence, 693. 


572  NOTES:  CHAPTER  xxx 

42.  Calhoun,   'Disquisition   on   Govern-  47.  Ibid.,  198. 

ment,'  Works,  I,  48-49.  48.  HoUis,   82 ;   also  Calhoun  to  Anna 

43.  Calhoun,  'Discourse  on  the  Constitu-  Maria  Clemson,  June  IS,  1849,  Cor- 
tion,'  Works,  I,  268-270.  respondence,  768. 

44.  Idem,  Works,  I,  77,  55,  57.  49.  Edward  Pollard,   The  Lost   Cause, 

45.  Agar,  197.  749. 

46.  Ibid..  219. 


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INDEX 


Abbeville  (S.  C.),  1 ;  Calhoun's  law  office 
at,  46 

Abbott,  John,  300 

Aberdeen,  Lord,  on  Texas  annexation,  377 ; 
on  Oregon  boundary,  438 

Abolition,  Calhoun  on,  447 

Abolitionist  literature,  and  Charleston  post- 
office  raid,  308 

Abolitionist  societies,  312;  in  South,  290 

Abolitionists,  296;  Southern  attitude 
toward,  293,  405 ;  Jackson  denounces, 
309;  petition  of,  310;  Calhoun  on,  453 

Adams,  Charles  Francis,  372 

Adams,  John  Quincy,  107,  125,  126,  127, 
132,  135;  147,  215  272,  422;  Diary 
quoted,  36,  136,  137,  382;  candidate  for 
President,  139;  campaign  for  President, 
141;  on  Missouri  question,  147;  attacks 
Calhoun  in  Presidential  campaign,  149; 
on  Calhoun-Crawford  attacks,  150 ; 
elected  President,  158;  Cabinet  of,  159; 
Calhoun's  remarks  on  administration  of, 
160  ;  Randolph's  opposition  to,  163  ;  Cal- 
houn antagonistic  to,  164 ;  thaws  out, 
195 ;  aligns  self  with  Jackson,  238 ;  on 
Calhoun,  259 ;  on  slavery,  292 ;  'slavery 
should  break  Union/  305 

'Address  of  the  Southern  Delegates  in 
Congress  to  Their  Constituents/  475 

Alamo,  357 

Allston,  Washington,  225 

Alston,  Joseph,  52,  53 

Alpha  Chapter  (Phi  Beta  Kappa),  Yale 
College,  24 

America,  398-420  ;  growth  of,  203^206 ;  oc- 
cupation of  people,  398 ;  population,  398 ; 
agricultural  output,  396;  cities,  398- 
399 ;  railroads  in,  399 ;  pioneer  move- 
ment, 399 ;  foreign  opinion  of,  399— 
400 ;  democracy  and  aristocracy  in,  400 ; 
money  in,  400-401,  403;  boss  rule  in, 
403;  corrupt  politics,  403;  Calhoun  on, 
407 ;  and  West,  407 

American  imperialism,  448-449 

American  Review,  417 

American  Revolution,  3 

Anderson  County   (S.  C),  178 

Anglo-American  unity,  99—100 

Anti-Masonic  Party,  233 

Anti-slave  trade  laws,  333 

Aristocracy,  203,  400,  401 ;  in  North,  401 ; 
Southern,  405 

Army,  Calhoun  as  Secretary  of  War  builds 
up,  127 ;  reduction  of,  129 ;  economy  in, 
129 

Army  Volunteer  Bill,  79 

Assassination,  of  Jackson,  attempted,  270 

Athletics,  and  education,  15 

Austin,  Stephen,  356 

Baltimore,  carries  Calhoun's  body,  513-517 
Baltimore  Patriot,  246 
Bancroft,  George,  on  Jackson's  receptions, 
271 


Bank  of  the  United  States,  260-267,  326- 
329 ;  Webster  on,  265 ;  as  source  of  dis- 
union, 331 

Barbour,  James,   145,  154 

Barbour,  Philip  P.,  145 

Bates,  Mary,  382 

Bath,  Calhouns  at,  65 

Battle  of  New  Orleans,  99 

Battle  of  Tippecanoe,  73 

Bayard,  J.  A.,  78 

Bell,  Senator,  484 

Benton,  Thomas  Hart,  82,  161,  217,  277, 
441;  accuses  Calhoun  of  lying,  278; 
and  Clay,  459-460 

Berlin  Decree,  85 

Bibb,  William  Wyatt,  69 

Bigelow,  Abijah,  71 

Biddle,  Nicholas,  145,  260,  345  ;  and  Panic 
of  1837,  326-329.  See  also  Bank  of 
United  States 

Black  Act  (Conn.),  299 

Bloody  Bill,  254 

'Bloody  Monday/  297  ^ 

Blue  laws,  in  Connecticut,  37;  observance 
of  Sunday,  39 

Bluffton  movement,  475 

Boarding  Chouses,  in  Washington,  87.  See 
also  Hill's  boarding  house 

Bonneau's  Ferry,  56,  58 

Bonus  Bill,  116 

Booth,  Junius,  242 

Boss  rule,  403 

Boston,  Calhoun  visits,  139;  indignant  at 
Clay-Calhoun  Compromise,  25  5  ;  in  Panic 
of  1833,  262;  and  Calhoun  for  Presi- 
dent (1844),  351 

Boston  Courier,  on  Clay-Calhoun  Compro- 
mise, 255 

Boston  Messenger,  quoted,  86 

Boston  Post,  500 

Bowie,  Chancellor,  34 

Brady,  Matthew,  479 

Bremer,  Fredericka,  423 

Brooks  vs.  Kemp,  34 

Brothers  in  Unity  Literary  Society,  25-26 

Brown,  General  Jacob,  Calhoun's  relations 
with,  120-121 

Brownson,  Orestes,  304,  464 

Buchanan,  James,  267,  422;  succeeds  Cal- 
houn as  Secretary  of  State,  381 

Burr,  Aaron,  38 

Burt,  Amelia,  485 

Burt,  Armistead,  419,  483 

Butler,  Alexander,  512 

Butler,  Andrew,  185,  471 

Butler,  C.  M.,  Calhoun  refuses  to  see,  508 

Caldwell,  Major  John,  3,  9 

Caldwell,    Martha.   See   Calhoun,    Martha 

Caldwell 
Calhoun,  Andrew  Pickens  (son),  101,  219, 

443;  at  Yale,   218-219;  married,   351; 

father's  favorite  son,  373 


583 


S84 

Calhoun,  Anna  Maria  (daughter),  173,  219, 
275,  373-374,  391-392,  446,  481 ;  Cal- 
houn's concern  for,  219-221 ;  in  Wash- 
1^on>  282  •  Carriage  of,  283  ;  illness  of, 
342;  returns  to  America,  478-479:  on 
father's  death,  512 

™hr01S' C^erine  (sister),  marries  Moses 
•  Waddel,  3  ;  death  of,  6 
Calhoun,    Cornelia    (daughter),    219;    fa- 
ther's concern  for,  219 
Calhoun,  Elizabeth  (daughter),  134-135, 219 
Calhoun,  Floride  (daughter),  101,  102,  219 
Calhoun,    Floride    Colhoun     (wife),    101, 
316-325,  507;  Calhoun's  absence  from| 
89  :  as  Mrs.  Secretary  of  War,  133-135  ; 
at  Dumbarton  Oaks,  136 ;  and  Calhoun's 
defeat  for  Presidency,  156;  religion  of, 
178;  in  Washington  society,  193;  snubs 
Peggy  O'Neil,  198-199,  3*23 ;  orders  her 
butler  to   'show  to  the  door'   President 
Jackson,  200;  care  for  slaves,  289-291; 
at   Fort    Hill,    316,    321;    affection   for 
Calhoun,     316;     loneliness,     317,     318; 
children,    219,    317,    318,    325;    life   in 
Washington,  318;  jealous  of  Calhoun's 
work,    319,    321;    fits   of   temper,    320; 
industry  of,  321 ;  gardens,  332 ;  illnesses 
of,  322 ;  Calhoun's  love  for,  324 ;  happy 
marriage,    325;    improvements   to    Fort 
Hill,  389.  See  also  Colhoun,  Floride 
Calhoun,  James  Edward  (son),  219,  374- 

375;   392 

Calhoun,  Dr.  John,  40 
Calhoun,    John    B.    (son),    219,    505;    ill 

health  of,  374 

Calhoun,  John  C,  home  life,  1,  2,  8;  and 
rdigion,  1,  22,  27,  40,  44,  178,  287,  390, 
396-397,    508-509;    father,    3-6,    7-8 ; 
mother,  4,   11-13,   16;   education,   5,  6, 
13,     15,     16-31,     36-39;    and    father's 
prejudices,    5;    and    Jeffersonian    doc- 
trine, 6;  family  deaths,  6-7,  16;  man- 
ages family  estate-,  9-11 ;  at  Yale,  13,  14, 
16-31;    athletic   interests,    15;    brilliant 
student,    19,    29;    elected   to    Phi    Beta 
Kappa,    24;    and    Sarah    Sherman,    26- 
27 ;   theory  of  government,   29 ;   health 
of,  32,  50,  132-133,  240,  379,  416,  418, 
446,  474,  477-478,  480,  485-486,  487- 
488,   497,   498,  499,   501,   502,   503;  at 
Newport,   32-34,   42;   relationship  with 
Colhouns,  34;  at  Litchfield  Law  School, 
34,    36-39,    42-43;    practices    law,    34, 
46,  47,  48-49;  visits  Jefferson,  35-36; 
at    Charleston,    43-45;    beginnings    of 
public  life,  46-56  ;  and  Chesapeake-Leop- 
ard affair,  46-47 ;  elected  to  legislature, 
47;  and  Nancy  Hanks,  49-52;  gaps  in 
correspondence,  51,  63;  in  South  Caro- 
lina legislature,  52-54 ;  on  national  pol- 
icy, 54  ;  courtship  and  marriage,  57-66  ; 
elected  to  Congress,  '62 ;  letters  to  Flo- 
nde,  63;  financial  troubles,  66,  137,  173, 
180;  and  Congressional  policy,  68-69: 
as  War  Hawk,  69,  81,  86 ;  and  Clay,  70; 
start   of   national    political    career,    70; 
heads  House  Committee  on  Foreign  Re- 
lations,   72;    and   John    Randolph,    74; 
first  major  Congressional  address,   76- 


INDEX 

78;   children,  78,  89-90,  102,   134-135 
137;  Washington  friends,  88,  135,  278; 
and   William   Lowndes,    88-89 ;   on   re- 
pealing Embargo  Act,   90-91 ;   on  cur- 
rency problems,  94-96;  blamed  for  lack 
of  war  effort,   96;   on  conscription,  97, 
110;  on  New  England's  threat  of  seces- 
sion, 97 ;  Loan  Bill  speech,  98 ;  death  of 
daughters,     102,     134-135;     nationalist- 
sectionalist,    104,    115,    116;   and   Dolly 
Madison,    105;   in   Washington    (1815), 
106;     (1834),    273-274;    (1837).    335- 
338;     (1846),    420-421,    424;     (1849), 
483-485 ;    nation-wide    fame,    107-109 ; 
and  1815  session  of  Congress,  109,  110; 
on    national    defense,    110;    on    Second 
United    States    Bank,    111-112;    and    a 
protective   tariff,    112-114;    concept   of 
broadening  Union,  114;  idea  of  liberty, 
115;   and  slavery,   115;   454,   469-470; 
and  bill  to  raise  pay  for  Congressmen 
117;  re-elected  (1816),  118;  and  Gros- 
venor,  119;  as  Secretary  of  War,   119, 
120-135  ;  moves  family  to  Washington, 
120;  policy  for  War  Department,   121, 
128;  charm  and  diplomacy  of,  121-122; 
and  General  Parker,  122-123 ;  and  Gen- 
eral Andrew  Jackson,  123-124;  adviser 
to  Monroe,  126;  influence  of,  on  Mon- 
roe Doctrine,   127;  and  foreign  policy, 
127 ;    on    reduction   of    Army,    129 ;    at 
Dumbarton  Oaks,  136-159;  and  Presi- 
dential nomination  (1824),  138;  (1828), 
191 ;    tours   military   installations,    138- 
139;  and  campaign  for  the  Presidency 
(1824),  139-156  ;  and  Missouri  question, 
146 ;  and  Washington  Republican,   149  ; 
Crawford's    attacks    on,    149-150,    150- 
151;  favored  for  President  by  Monroe, 
151-152;    as   Vice-President,    160-171; 
on  Adams's  administration,  160  ;  opposi- 
tion of  Senate  to,  163 ;  antagonistic  to 
Adams,   164;  integrity  questioned,   165; 
Randolph's  influence  on,   166 ;   and  tar- 
iff questions,    167,    171,    182,  230-231  ; 
on  sectionalism,  168 ;  on  Southern  econ- 
omy,   170,   329-334,   417;   at  Pendleton 
(S.    C),    172-191;    leadership    ability, 
177;  interest  in  fanning,  179,  281,  385; 
and  cotton-slave  economy,  181,  520-521  ; 
on  nullification  crises,  181-191,  229-230, 
231;   predicts  effect  of  civil  war,   187; 
and    Peggy    O'Neil-Eaton    affair,    198- 
202;  rifts  with  Jackson,   199,  212-213, 
260;  disapproves  of  Seminole  campaign 
207-208,  214,  216;  personal  loyalty  to 
Jackson,  209,  461 ;  and  Webster-Hayne 
debates,   210;   at  Jefferson   Day  dinner 
(1830),    211-213;    Crawford   influences 
Jackson  against,   213 ;  publishes  details 
of  Seminole  campaign,  216;  secures  re- 
j'ection  of  Van  Buren's  appointment  as 
Minister  to  England,  216-217 ;  on  States' 
rights,  218,  231-233,  416-417;  concern 
for   Anna    Maria,    219-221,    342;    and 
Charleston  life,  222-228 ;  national  influ- 
ence of,  at  end,  230 ;  plans  to  preserve 
Union,  231;   Fort  Hill  letter,  231-233; 
letter   to   Governor  Hamilton,   235 ;    on 


INDEX 

nullification     and    secession,     235-236, 
316;    at   Nullification    Convention,   239 
240,    256,    257-258;    Jackson's    opinion 
of,  239;  resigns  as  Vice-President  and 
chosen  Senator,  240;  returns  to  Wash- 
ington   (1832),    240-241,    243-244;    as 
Senator,    244-258,    276,    277-278,    281, 
301-308,   310,    336-341,  435-438,   460-^ 
462,   474-477,   477-478,  484-488,   490- 
494,      497-498,      499-501;      501-503; 
charged    with    treason,    245;    prejudice 
against,  245-246;  on  Jackson's  call  for 
arms,    246;    on    Force    Bill,    247-253; 
reply    to    Webster,    253-254;    compro- 
mises   with    Clay,    255-256;    votes    on 
Compromise   Tariff   Bill,   256;    at   Fort 
Hill,    258;    (1837),    329-334      (1845), 
382-397,    418;    (1849),    479-481,    482- 
483 ;  on  Executive  power,  259-260,  266  ; 
and  Second  Bank  of  United  States,  261 
264,  328-329 ;  on  Jackson's  'monarchy,' 
266;  compared  with  Jackson,  268-271; 
accused  of  attempting  Jackson's  assassi- 
nation, 270;  controls  balance  of  power 
in  Senate,  275 ;  and  newspapermen,  279, 
496,  503 ;  as  slaveholder,  285 ;  on  eman- 
cipation,  294,   305,   308,   314-315,  447; 
on  liberty,  301-303,  523;   and  William 
Lloyd  Garrison,  305 ;  his  Mail  Bill  de- 
feated,   309;    and    attacks    on    slavery, 
311-314;     and    Floride,    316-325;    on 
Northern   economy   vs.    Southern,    329- 
334;   plan  for  Democratic  Party,   330: 
on    Sub-Treasury    Bill,    336-338;    con- 
troversy with  Clay,  338-341 ;  and  illness 
of  Anna  Maria,  342 ;  and  Varina  Davis, 
343,  423 ;  and  Angelica  Singleton,  343- 
344;  and  election  of  General  Harrison, 
344-345 ;  on  free  trade,  348 ;  on  Clay, 
349;     Presidential     ambitions     (1844), 
350-355;    (1848),    419-420,   449,    469; 
and  admission  of  Texas  to  Union,  357; 
declines,  then  accepts,  Secretary  of  State 
post,     358,     362,     363-364;     375-377; 
friendship    with    Van    Buren,    political 
necessity,  366;  and  Sir  Richard  Paken- 
ham,    369;    and    soil    erosion    problem, 
385-386 ;  and  understanding  of  people, 
393 ;  love  of  art  and  poetry,  395 ;  tours 
America,   398:  suggested  for  President 
of   Southern   States,   406 ;   on  America 
407 ;  v  interest    in    the    West,    408 ;    on 
preservation    of   the    Union,    408,    474- 
477,   490-494,  499-501,   505,   509-511; 
interests    in    Southern    railroads,    408— 
412;    delegate   to    South- Western    Con- 
vention, 413,  416-418;  New  Orleans  re- 
ception, 413-414;  'Memphis  Memorial,' 
417;  on  South  Carolina's  loyalty,  420; 
refuses    appointment    to    Court    of    St. 
James's,  424 ;  on  acquiring  Oregon,  424- 
444 ;  on  possible  war  with  England,  432  ; 
on  Oriental  trade,  433;  discusses  Ore- 
gon with  Polk,  434-435  ;  approves  49th 
parallel  as  Oregon  boundary,   438;   on 
Mexican    War,    439-444;    on    Wilmot 
Proviso,   445—446;   on  American   impe- 
rialism, 448;  and  extension  of  Missouri 
Compromise,    450;    submits    resolutions 


585 

to  Senate,  451-452;  and  Clay's  resolu- 
tions, 453;  denies  right  of  Congress  to 
prohibit  slavery,  453;  on  abolitionists, 
453;  and  Benton,  460;  and  Dyer,  460- 
462;  on  use  of  'nation,'  461 ;  and  John 
Wentworth,  462-463;  influence  on 
younger  Congressmen,  463 ;  intellectual 
powers  of,  463-465 ;  attachment  for 
South,  469-470;  debates  Webster  on 
Fugitive  Slave  Law,  471-472;  on  con- 
stitutional rights  of  South,  472-474; 
address  to  Senate  misunderstood,  475 ; 
disagrees  with  Polk,  476-477;  collapses 
in  Senate,  477-478 ;  visits  Anna  Maria, 
478-479 ;  last  chance  to  unite  South, 
480-482;  chooses  Jefferson  Davis  as 
successor,  488 ;  clashes  with  Clay,  491  ; 
traces  causes  of  disunity,  491-494; 
Senate's  tribute  to,  495-496;  and 
Foote  attack,  497-498,  501-502;  Web- 

Sf?  rV?its'  4f  8T49.9.'*  last  illness'  5°3, 
5  U  5— 511;  and  futility  of  compromise 
504;  sends  for  family,  508;  death  of, 
nrl »"  obituaries»  511-512;  tomb  of,  518; 
Works,  outlined,  519-531;  on  minori- 
ties, 522 
Calhoun,  Martha  Caldwell  (mother),  4 

11-13;   death  of,    16 

Calhoun,  Patrick  (father),  3-6;  moves  to 
Long  Cane,  4 ;  political  activities  of,  4- 
5;   education  of,    5;   prejudices   of,    5; 
death  of,  7-8;  estate,  8 
Calhoun,  Patrick  (son),  219 
Calhoun,  William  Lowndes  (son),  219 
Calhoun-Grosvenor  affair,  119 
Campbell,  David,  338 
Canada,  75 ;  plans  for  dividing,  80 ;  mili- 
tary campaign  to,  84 
Cantrell,  Stephen,   131 
Capitalism,  Calhoun  on,  331 
Capitol,  273;   description  of   (1811),   71; 
burning  and  desecration  of,  92-93  ;  tem- 
porary,  94 

Carnngton,  Eliza,  152 
Cass,  Lewis,  424 
Catlin's  Tavern,  37 

Charleston  (S.  C),  32.  43-45,  425 ;  amuse- 
ments at,  44;  life  in,  222-228;  society 
in,  223 ;  literary  groups  in,  274 ;  artists 
in,  255  ;  changes  in,  227-228 ;  as  military 
depot,  239;  rioting  between  Nullifiers 
and  Unionists  in,  251 ;  postoffice  raid  at, 
308;  reception  for  Calhoun,  467-468; 
pays  respects  to  Calhoun,  514 
Charleston  Courier,  419,  442  ;  reports  Cal- 

houn's  speech  on  Force  Bill,  250 
Charleston  Mercury,  442,  500,  503 
Chase,  Salmon  P.,  484 
Cheves,  Langdon,  69,  88,   120,   161,  224; 
defeats  Dallas  Bank  Bill,  95  ;  as  Secre- 
tary of  the  Treasury,  159;  heads  seces- 
sionists,   236 

Chesapeake-Leopard  affair,  46-47 
Choate,  Rufus,  348 
Christmas  Eve  Treaty,  99 
Civil  War,   406-407;   views  of  historians 
on  causes  of,  170  ;  lines  drawn  for,  213 ; 
and  dominance  of  West,  407;   Calhoun 
forecasts  aftermath,  475 


586 

Clay,  Henry,  9,  39,  68-69,  107,  117,  120, 
147,  195,  448,  457;  picks  Calhoun  as 
House  floor  leader,  Twelfth  Congress, 
70;  as  Speaker  of  House,  71,  72;  ap- 
points committees  of  House,  72 ;  on 
preparations  for  War  of  1812,  79-80; 
and  declaration  of  war,  81 ;  appoints 
Webster  to  Foreign  Relations  Commit- 
tee, 84 ;  in  Belgium,  96 ;  supports  Second 
Bank  of  United  States,  112,  331;  ar- 
ranges Calhoun-Grosvenor  affair,  119;  as 
candidate  for  President  (1824),  139-140  ; 
National  Intelligencer  supports,  149 ;. 
loses  1824  election,  157;  controls  House 
vote  in  1824  election,  157;  Secretary  of 
State,  161;  and  Fanny  Kemble,  243; 
opposed  to  civil  war,  254-255;  tariff 
compromise  with  Calhoun,  255  ;  on  Ex- 
ecutive power,  263 ;  dominant  figure, 
275 ;  on  emancipation,  302 ;  on  Mail 
Bill,  309 ;  plan  for  gradual  emancipa- 
tion, 314-315;  on  Floride,  324;  contro- 
versy over  Calhoun,  338-341 ;  on  Harri- 
son's election,  346 ;  quits  Senate,  349 ; 
on  Calhoun,  394 ;  Benton  on,  459-460 ; 
returns  to  Senate,  484-485 ;  on  preserv- 
ing the  Union,  485  ;  Compromise  of  1850, 
487,  488;  Calhoun  clashes  with,  491; 
eulogy  of  Calhoun,  512 

Clay,  Mrs.  Henry,  106 

Clay-Calhoun  Compromise  (1833),  255- 
256 

Clay-Randolph  duel,  164 

Clay- Webster  Compromise  (1850),  487- 
488 

Clayton,  John  Middleton,  256 ;  on  Caro- 
linians, 254 

Clemson,  Calhoun  (grandson),  446 

Clemson,  Thomas,  443 ;  marries  Anna 
Maria,  283;  trouble  with  Andrew,  372 

Clemson  College,  388,  392 

Clergy  Hall,   17/-178,   184 

Cockburn,  Admiral,  92 

Coit,  Rev.  John  C,  306 

Colhoun,  Floride,  32,  51 ;  courtship  and 
marriage  of,  56-65  ;  accomplishments  of, 
59;  background,  60;  letters  to,  from 
Calhoun,  63 ;  wedding,  64 ;  dowry,  65— 
66.  See  also  Calhoun,  Floride  Colhoun 
(wife). 

Colhoun,  Floride  Bonneau  (mother-in- 
law),  influence  of,  on  Calhoun,  34,  56; 
plans  marriage  of  daughter,  57 

Colhoun,  James,  32,  373 

Colhoun,  John,  32 

Colhoun,  John  Ewing,  392 

Colhoun,  Mrs.  John  Ewing,  32 

Colhoun  family,  Calhoun's  relations  with, 

Columbia  (S.  C.),  52 

Columbia  College,  399 

Commerce,  European  restrictions  on,  85 

Commercial  Treaty,  110 

Committee  of  Fifteen,  474 

Committee  on  Foreign  Relations  of  House 
of  Representatives,  72  ;  report  of  (1811), 
73 ;  Randolph  flays  report,  75 ;  Webster 
appointed  to,  84 

Compromise  of  1833,  255-256,  347 


INDEX 

Compromise  of  1850,  487-488 

Confederacy  (Southern)  advocated,  257 ; 
nucleus  of,  443 

Congress,  Calhoun  elected  to,  62 ;  personal- 
ities in  (1812),  68;  discusses  War  of 
1812,  74;  Calhoun  favors  war,  76; 
declares  war  (1812),  81;  reconvenes  in 
burned-out  Capitol,  95 ;  and  Dallas's 
currency  plan,  95 ;  1815  session,  109 ; 
and  protective  tariff,  112-114;  increased 
pay  of  members  voted  (1816),  117; 
fights  in,  119;  exonerates  Calhoun  of 
profit  sharing,  122;  and  economy  drive, 
128 ;  orders  economy  drive  in  Army, 
129 ;  wrecks  Calhoun's  exploration 
plans,  132 ;  election  of  President  by 
House  (1824),  156-157;  personnel  of 
(1825),  160-163;  in  1828,  169;  and 
Second  Bank  of  United  States,  263; 
debates  slavery,  311-314;  on  Sub-, 
Treasury  Bill,  336-338;  votes  annexa> 
tion  of  Texas,  381 ;  declares  war  on 
Mexico,  440-441.  See  also  House  of 
Representatives,  Senate 

Connecticut,  blue  laws  in,  37;  slavery  in 
40-41 

'Conic  Sections  Rebellion/  219 

Conscription,  97,  HO 

Constitution,  interpretation  of,  issue  of 
1824  campaign,  144 ;  interpretation  of, 
175 ;  provisions  of,  for  annexing  terri- 
tory, 380;  powers  in,  450-451 

Constitution- Guerriere,  83 

Constitutional  rights  of  South,  472 

Cooper,  Thomas,  185,  334 

Cornwall  (Conn.),  40 

Cotton  economy,  330 

Cotton  gin,  180 

Cotton-slave  economy,  175,  180 

Country  fever,  56 

Cralle,  Richard,  233,  510 

Crawford,  William  H.,  107;  Secretary  of 
the  Treasury,  125,  127;  candidate  for 
President  (1824),  139;  assails  Calhoun, 
149-150,  150-151;  Gazette  supports, 
149 ;  inefficiency  as  Secretary  of  the 
Treasury,  151;  on  Calhoun's  campaign, 
151;  not  favored  by  Monroe,  152;  ill- 
ness of,  1 54 ;  House  caucus  nominates 
for  President,  155;  loses  1824  election, 
157;  and  Calhoun's  disapproval  of  Jack- 
son, 207 ;  influences  Jackson  against 
Calhoun,  213 

Crawford,  Mrs.  William  H.,  106 

Crime,  and  punishment,  48 

Crockett,  Davy,  357 

Crofts,  William,  224 

Crowninshield,  Benjamin  W.,  120 

Crowninshield,  Mrs.  Mary,  105 

Currency  problem  (1814),  94-96 

Dallas,  George  M.,  plan  of,  for  Bank  of 
United  States,  111-112;  supports  Cal- 
houn at  Pennsylvania  Convention,  155 ; 
as  Vice-President,  376 

Dallas  currency  plan,  95 

Daniels,  Jonathan,  516—517 

Davis,  Governor  (Mass.),  496 


INDEX 

Davis,  Jefferson,  130,  417,  423,  457,  470, 

490 ;  on  trial  by  jury  for  Negroes,  288 ; 

as  successor  to  Calhoun  as  Senate  leader, 

488;  eulogizes  Calhoun,  512 
Davis,  Varina  (Mrs.  Jefferson),  343,  473 

497;  on  Calhoun,  192 
Day,  Jeremiah,  21 

Dearb9rn,  Major  General  Henry,  84 
Debt,  imprisonment  for,  48 
Democracy,   103,   203,  400;   in  education, 

15;    Jackson   and,    203;    industrial,    in 

North,  206 
Democratic  Party,  Calhoun's  plans  for  in 

South,  330 

DeSaussure,  Chancellor,  45 
Detroit,  surrender  of,  84 
Dickens,    Charles,    on    Second    Bank    of 

United  States,  326 
Direct  (war)  tax,  110 
Dock  Street  Theatre,  44 
Donelson,  Andrew  Jackson,  puts  pressure 

on  Sam  Houston,  378 
Donelson,  Emily,  215 
Douglas,  Stephen  A.,  457,  484.  487 
Drayton,  Governor  John,  appoints  Calhoun 

as  aide-de-camp,  52 
Drayton,  Colonel  William,  236,  392 
Dumbarton  Oaks,  136-159;  description  of, 

136;   expenses,    137;    entertainment  at, 

Dunlap,  William,  on  Washington,  D.  C, 

Duvall,  Gabriel,  274 

Dwight,  Timothy,  14-31 ;  Calhoun  rejects 
doctrine  of,  27 ;  on  secession,  28 ;  classes 
of,  29 ;  on  Calhoun's  abilities,  29 

Dyer,  Oliver,  457,  471 ;  on  Calhoun,  460- 
463 

Earl,  Ralph,  215 

Eaton,  Senator  John  Henry,  marries  Peggy 

E*^'i]$TS'  Peggy  °>Neil  Timberlake, 
193-195 ;  nonacceptance  by  Washington 
society,  194;  snubbed  by  Mrs.  Calhoun, 
198 ;  influence  with  Jackson,  200 ;  a  tool 
of  Van  Buren,  201 ;  revenge  completed, 
216 

Economy,  Northern  vs.  Southern,  186-191, 
305.  See  also  Cotton  economy,  Cotton- 
slave  economy,  Slave  economy,  Southern 
economy 

Edgefield  Advertiser,  442 

Edgefield  County  Courthouse,  34 

Education,  South  Carolina's  philosophy  of, 
13;  classicism  in,  14-15;  democracy  in, 
15 ;  revolutionizes  Southern  thought,  16- 
of  Negro,  299 ;  of  women,  402 

Elmore,  General  John  A.,  62 

Ely,  Ezra,  23 

Emancipation,  fear  of  results  of,  295; 
position  of  Negro  after,  299;  plan  for 
gradual,  314;  Calhoun  on,  447 

Embargo  Act,  90-91 

England,  plans  for  War  of  1812,  69;  arms 
Indians,  73;  American  attitude  toward, 
73 ;  unaware  of  U.  S.  attitude,  78 ;  War 
of  1812  could  have  been  averted,  85; 
troops  burn  Washington,  91-93;  and 


587 

An^lo- American  unity,  99-100 ;  agents 
incite  Seminoles,  123;  and  slave  trade, 
313  ;  and  annexation  of  Texas,  369-370  ; 
effect  on,  of  annexation  of  Texas,  371- 
372;  to  guarantee  independence  of 
Mexico,  377;  plans  restriction  on  Texan 
trade,  377;  and  possible  war  over 
Oregon,  424-444;  agreement  on  49th 
parallel,  435,  438 

Essex,  83 

Essex  Junto,  97 

Europe,  covets  American  lands,  126;  de- 
signs on  South  America,  127;  and 
American  tariff,  186 

Everett,  Edward,  272 

Exposition  and  Protest,  The,  36,  184,  186 

Executive,  power  of,  Calhoun  on,  259-260  ; 
Clay  on,  263 

Federal  Tariff  Act,  South  Carolina  nulli- 
fies, 238 

Felder,  John,  23,  25,  37 
Fifty-Four-Forty  or  Fight,'  424 

Foote,  Samuel  A.,  484;  attacks  Calhoun, 
497,  501-502 ;  Calhoun's  reply  to,  497- 
498 

Force  Bill,  247-253 ;  vote  on,  252 :  power 
delegated  Executive  in,  259 

Foreign  policy,  Calhoun's  work  on,  127 

Forsyth,  John,  rebukes  Calhoun  on  Van 
Buren  appointment,  217 

Fort  Barrancas,  123 

Fort  Hill,  184;^  slaves  at,  287;  overseers 
at  288 ;  Floride  manages,  290 ;  office  at, 

388;  Floride's  improvements, '  3 89  ;  hos- 
pitality at,  390-391;  mortgaged,  482; 
mortgage  paid  off,  507 

Fort  Hill  letter,  231-233,  235 

Fort  Mims,  82 

Fort  Sumter,  239 

Foster,  Augustus  J.,  78;  Calhoun's  con- 
tacts with,  79 

France,  attitude  toward,  73 

Fraser,  Charles,  225 

Free  Soil  movement,  453 

Free  Soilers,  484 

Free  Trade  Act,  258 

Freedom  of  the  press,  302 ;  and  Mail  Bill, 

Fr&nont,  John,  358 
French  decrees,  85 ;  revocation  of,  86 
Fugitive  Slave  Law,  Massachusetts  nulli- 
fies, 238;  nullified,  471-472 

Gallatin,     Albert,     nominated    for     Vice- 

President,  155 
Galveston,  398 

Gardiner,  Julia,  376;  marries  Tyler,  359 
Garrison,    William    Lloyd,    305;    at    Cal- 

noun's  tomb,  518 
Gazette,   backs   Crawford   for   Presidency 

(1824),  149 

Georgetown,  life  in,  137 
Georgia,  and  expansion  of  railroads,  408- 

Gilmer,    Thomas    W.,    Secretary    of    the 

Navy,   360 
Goodrich,  Elizur,  21 


588 

Grady,  Henry  W.,  189 

Great  Britain.  See  England 

Gratiot,  Lt.  Col.  Charles,  128 

Green,   Duff,   5,  208,  216,  233,  247,  344, 

418;     urges    Calhoun    for    Presidency 

(1844),   350-352 
Greyson,  William  J.,  224 
Grimke*,  Thomas,  237 
Grosvenor,  Thomas,  119 
Grundy,  Felix,  69,  216;  on  War  of  1812, 

Hall,  Mrs.  Basil,  205,  273 

Hamilton,  Alexander,  39 

Hamilton,  James,  184,  353,  490 

Hammond,  James  H.,  182,  184,  218,  403, 
468,  475 ;  on  Calhoun,  394 

Hanks,  Nancy,  49-52 

Harrison,  William  Henry,  106,  161;  battle 
of  Tippecanoe,  73 ;  elected  to  Presidency, 
344_345;  calls  On  Calhoun,  345;  death 
of,  348 

Hartford  Convention,  97,  98,  101 

Harvey,  Peter,  499 

Hayerhill  (Mass.)  citizens  request  dissolu- 
tion of  Union,  305 

Hayne,  Robert  Young,  162,  185,  224,  412; 
debates  Webster,  209-211 ;  offers  of  mil- 
itary aid  to,  238;  resigns  from  Senate, 
239 ;  on  Calhoun,  240 ;  on  railroad  ex- 
pansion, 409 

Hill's  boarding  house,  483 

Hoadley,  George,  21 

Hoffman,  David,  259 

Holland,  Mrs.,  225-226 

Holmes,  Isaac,  424 

Hone,  Philip,  326 

Hopkins,  H.  L.,  336 

House  of  Representatives,  members  of 
(1811),  71;  Committee  on  Foreign  Re- 
lations, 72 ;  votes  War  of  1812,  81 ;  and 
Presidential  election  of  1824,  156-157; 
description  of,  274;  and  Wilmot  Pro- 
viso, 446.  See  also  Congress,  Senate 

Houston,  Sam,  122,  378,  451,  481 

Hudson's  Bay  Company,  and  control  of 
Oregon,  426-427 

Huger,  Daniel  Elliott,  52,  236,  257 

Hull,  General  William,  84 

Hunt,  Theodore  Gaillard,  236 

Hunter,  R.  M.  T.,  and  Calhoun's  biography, 
352 

Imperialism,  American,  448 

Indian  problems,  131 

Indians,  use  of,  in  War  of  1812,  69  ;  armed 
by  English,  73 ;  conflict  with  Senunoles, 
123;  Calhoun's  attitude  toward,  131 ;  on 
Oregon  Trail,  429-430 

Industrial  democracy,  206 

Ingham,  Mrs.,  194 

Internal  Improvements,  144 

Ton,  Jacob,  25 

Jackson,  Andrew,  82,  120,  121,  137,  147, 
167 ;  recruits  soldiers,  83 ;  and  Seminole 
campaign,  123-124 ;  candidate  for  Pres- 
ident, 139,  140 ;  rejects  Mexican  appoint- 
ment, 148;  as  Senator,  161;  elected 
President,  191 ;  and  Peggy  O'Neil,  193  ; 


INDEX 

and  John  Henry  Eaton,  f  194;  suspects 
Washington  women  of  influencing  ap- 
pointments, 194 ;  and  death  of  wife, 
194-195 ;  champions  Peggy  O'Neil,  194- 
195,  198-200;  inauguration,  197;  orders 
Mrs.  Calhoun  to  accept  Peggy  O'Neil, 
199;  rift  with  Calhoun,  199;  Webster 
on,  203;  and  democracy,  203;  Calhoun 
disapproves  of  Seminole  campaign,  207- 
208,  214;  'kitchen  cabinet,'  208;  on 
Calhoun,  209;  at  Jefferson  Day  dinner 
(1830),  212;  split  with  Calhoun  on 
preservation  of  Union,  212—213 ;  Craw- 
ford's influence  on,  213;  proclamation 
on  preserving  Union,  238 ;  letter  to  Van 
Buren  on  Calhoun,  239;  predicts  'no 
bloodshed*  in  South  Carolina,  242;  on 
refractory  Southerners,  243;  threatens 
Calhoun  with  treason  charge,  245  ;  calls 
for  arms  to  enforce  order,  246 ;  asks 
Webster  for  aid,  248;  and  Nicholas 
Biddle,  260-261;  against  Second  Bank 
of  United  States,  261,  326-329;  and 
Panic  of  1833,  262;  hatred  of,  263; 
censured  by  Senate,  265  ;  compared  with 
Calhoun,  268^-271;  attempt  to  assassi- 
nate, 270 ;  his  Presidential  receptions, 
271 ;  denounces  abolitionists,  309 ;  on 
Texas,  365 ;  Calhoun's  opinion  of  Jack- 
son, 461 

Jackson,  Rachel,  death  of,  194-195 

Jarvis,  John  Wesley,  paints  Calhoun's  por- 
trait, 154 

Jefferson,  Thomas,  Calhoun  visits,  35-36 ; 
donates  library  to  nation,  95 ;  on  tariff, 
114;  supports  Crawford  for  Presidency, 
140;  on  campaign  of  1*824,  142;  on 
Missouri  question,  146 

Jefferson  Day  dinner  (1830),  211-213 

Jeffersonian  doctrine,  6 

Johnston,  Joseph  E.,  130 

Judiciary  Act  of  1789,  181,  182 

Justice,  in  South  Carolina,  48 

Kemble,    Fanny,    242,    273;    Henry    Clay 

and,  243 
Kendall,  Amos,  87,  106,  270,  273,  308 ;  on 

Calhoun's  inconsistency,  465 
Kennedy,  John  P.,  107 
King,  Senator  William  R.,  377;  on  Jack- 

son-Calhoun  feud,  309 
'Kitchen  cabinet,'  208 

Lafayette,  General,  tours  America,  152 

Langdon,  John,  54 

Lawrence,  Abbott,  offers  Calhoun  loan,  418 

Lawyers,  colonial,  life  of,  48-49 

Leavenworth,  Henry,  131 

Lee,  Major  Henry,  207 

Lee,  Robert  Edward,  130 

Legare",  Hugh,  225,  226,  236;  on  Charles- 
ton, 222 ;  on  Calhoun,  229 

Legislators,  living  conditions  in  Washing- 
ton, 87 

Legislature  (S.  C.)t  Calhoun  elected  to, 
47;  requirements  for  election  to,  55 

Leigh,  B.  W.,  336 

'Letter  to  Governor  Hamilton/  235 

Lewis,  Major  William  BM  141 


INDEX 

Liberator,  The,  305 

Liberty,  Calhoun's  idea  of,  115;  Northern 
concept  of,  312 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  on  tyranny,  303 ;  ad- 
mires Calhoun,  423-424 

Linonia  Literary  Society,  25-26 

Litchfield  Law  School,  34 ;  Calhoun  at,  36- 
39 ;  fees  at,  37 ;  campus,  40 ;  recreation 
at,  43 

Literary  societies,  at  Yale,  25-26 

Loan  Bill,  98,  346-349 

Locke,  John,  writings  influence  Calhoun,  7 

'Log-Cabin*  campaign,  344-345 

Long  Cane  (S.  C.)»  2 

Long  Cane  Massacre,  3,  4 

Louisiana  Purchase,  75 

Lowndes,  Thomas,  236 

Lowndes,  William,  69,  87,  88-89,  120.  132, 
135 ;  and  nomination  for  Presidency, 
135;  candidate  for  President,  139; 
death  of,  161 

Lyell,  Charles,  402;  on  Charleston,  222 

MacBride,  Tames,  23,  25 

McDuffie,  George,  183-184,  239,  334,  361, 
376;  on  Oregon,  427 

McKee,  Samuel,  69 

McLean,  Judge  John,  371 

MacLeod,  John,  as  Secretary  of  War,  159 

McLoughlin,  Dr.  John,  427,  430-431 

Madison,  Dolly,  105 ;  and  burning  of 
Washington,  91-92;  favorites  of,  106; 
and  Peggy  O'Neil,  193 

Madison,  President  James,  54;  prior  to 
War  of  1812,  67;  message  to  Congress, 
72 ;  comments  on  Randolph,  74-75 ; 
wants  reconciliation  with  England,  80 ; 
changes  policy  on  war,  80;  on  declara- 
tion of  War  of  1812,  81;  and  burning 
of  Washington,  92;  vetoes  Bonus  Bill, 

Mail,  question  of  regulation  of,  309 

Mail  Bill,  309 

Manifest  Destiny,  422 

Mann,  Ambrose  Dudley,  377 

Mann,  Horace,  475 

March,  Ebenezer,  21 

March,  William,  on  Calhottn's  abilities,  85 

Marshall,  John,  106,  197,  272,  274;  in 
agreement  with  Jackson  on  nullification, 
238 

Martineau,  Harriet,  462 ;  on  Calhoun,  276- 
277 

Mason,  James,  491 

Massachusetts,  'nullifies'  Fugitive  Slave 
Law,  238,  471;  on  Calhoun  for  Presi- 
dent (1844),  351;  and  annexation  of 
Texas,  372 ;  farms  in,  402-403 

Maury,  Sarah  M.,  301,  426 

Meigs,  Tosiah,  18 

Memphis,  399 

'Memphis  Memorial,'  417 

Memphis  Convention,  416-418 

Mexican  War,  439-444,  447;  and  annexa- 
tion of  Texas,  450 

Mexico,  and  annexation  of  Texas,  369— 
370 ;  England  bargains  with,  377 ;  possi- 
bility of  war  with,  379 ;  war  with,  439- 
444,  447,  450 


589 

Middle  class,  effect  of  national  economy 
on,  402 

Milan  Decree,  85 

Mills,  Clark,  225 

Mills,  Robert,  225 

Mississippi  basin,  exploration  of,  132 

Missouri  basin,  exploration  of,  132 

Missouri  Compromise,  147,  453;  extension 
of,  450 

Missouri  question,  146;  effect  of,  on  Cab- 
inet, 146-147 

Mix's  contract  affair,  165 

Mobile,  reception  for  Calhoun  in,  413 

Money,  American  credo,  400-401 ;  rules 
America,  403 ;  Southern  idea  of,  405 

Monroe,  President  James,  106,  180,  207, 
215;  Cabinet  of,  120;  on  Jackson's 
attack  on  Seminoles,  123 ;  Cabinet  crisis 
over  Florida  capture,  24;  personnel 
problems  in  Cabinet,  124—125 ;  qualities 
of,  124-125;  Calhoun  adviser  to,  126; 
concern  for  Calhoun's  health,  133 ;  visits 
the  Calhouns,  137;  attempts  to  send 
Jackson  out  of  country,  147;  favors 
Calhoun  for  Presidency,  151 

Monroe  Doctrine,  127 


Montgomery,  399 
Monticello,  35 


Moral  philosophy  class,  29 

Moral  standards,  Calhoun's  personal,  280 

Morse,  Samuel  F.  B.,  225 

Nantucket      Courier,      on      Clay-Calhoun 

Tariff   Compromise   (1833),   255 
Napoleon,  decrees  of,  85 
Nashville  Convention,  481 
Natchez,  planned  insurrection  of  slaves  at, 

National  Bank,  111-112.  See  also  Bank 
of  United  States 

National  Bank  Bill,  145 

National  Exhibition  of  1845,  423 

National  Intelligencer.  94,  496 ;  backs 
Clay,  149 

Naval  battles,  in  War  of  1812,  83 

Navy,  Calhoun  on,  110 

Negro,  discrimination  against,  299;  edu- 
cation of,  299;  freedom  of,  302.  See 
also  Slaves,  Slavery 

New  England,  sedition  in,  97;  scheme  to 
destroy  Calhoun's  and  Jackson's  Presi- 
dential hopes,  169;  farms  in,  402 

New  Hampshire,  discrimination  against 
Negro,  299 

New  Orleans,  battle  of,  99;  Calhoun's 
reception  at,  413-414 

New  Orleans  Bee,  503 

New  Orleans  Jeffersonian  Republican,  419 

New  York  City,  204,  399 ;  Calhoun  visits, 
139,  478 ;  as  slave  trade  mart,  333 ;  life 
in,  401 

New  York  Courier  and  Enquirer,  and  Fort 
Hill  letter,  233 

New  York  Evening  Post,  on  Clay-Calhoun 
Compromise,  255 

New  York  Herald,  496,  502 

New  York  Tribune,  499,  500,  501 

New  York  Workingman's  Party,  304 


590 

Newberry  (S.  C),  Calhotin's  law  practice 
at,  47 

Newburyport  (Mass.)  Herald,  77 

Newport  (R.  I.),  Calhoun  at,  32-34,  42 

Newspapermen,  opinions  of  Calhoun,  279, 
496,  503 

Newspapers,  scarcity  of,  12;  reaction  of, 
to  Cafhoun's  Presidential  campaign,  142— 
144;  role  of,  in  1824  campaign,  14&- 
150;  on  Calhoun's  Mexican  War  posi- 
tion, 442-444 

Nichols,  Dr.  Thomas  Lowe,  300 

Niles*  Register,  326;  defends  Calhoun's 
integrity,  165 

Noble,  Alexander,  41 

Non-Intercourse  Act,  90—91 

North,  and  tariff,  186 ;  status  of  individual 
in,  205 ;  industrial  democracy,  206 ; 
differs  from  South,  206;  discrimination 
against  Negro,  299 ;  economy  of  South 
a  threat  to,  304-305;  on  slavery,  333- 
334,  447;  economic  interests  of,  vs. 
South,  332 ;  and  annexation  of  Texas, 
367,  372 ;  aristocracy  in,  401 ;  ignorant 
of  South's  problem,  406 ;  on  Wilmot 
Proviso,  446 ;  and  Calhoun's  resolutions, 
452;  'nullifies'  Fugitive  Slave  Law,  471 ; 
attitude  on  dissolving  Union,  487;  only 
hope  of  preserving  Union,  494 

North  Carolina  Standard,  496,  506 

Northrup,  Amos,  25 

Nullification,  229-230,  308;  alien  doctrine 
to  South,  233 ;  compared  with  secession, 
235-236;  'peaceful,  constitutional,'  236 

Nullification  Convention,  237-240;  recon- 
venes, 256 ;  Calhoun's  influence  at,  257- 
258 

Nullification  crisis,  181-191 ;  South  Caro- 
lina on,  185 

Nullifiers,  236-237.  See  also  Secessionists 

Oakly.  See  Dumbarton  Oaks 

O'Neil,  Peggy.  See  Eaton,  Peggy  O'Neil 
Timberlake 

Old  Hopewell  Church,  174 

Oregon,  controlled  by  Hudson's  Bay  Com- 
pany, 426-427;  American  settlers  in, 
427;  settling  of,  428-431;  Senate  de- 
bate on,  435 ;  border  agreed  upon,  435, 
438;  not  to  be  slave  territory,  453,  455, 
456 

Oregon  City,  settling  of,  431 

Oregon  Territory,  424-444 

Oregon  Trail,  429-431 

Oriental  trade,  433 

Orr,  James,  189 

Overton,  John,  213,  215 

Pakenham,  Sir  Richard,  visits  Washington, 
368 ;  on  Treaty  of  Annexation,  371 ;  on 
Oregon  boundary,  438 

Panic  of  1833,  262 

Panic  of  1837,  325-329 

Parker,  General,  122-123 

Peale,  Charles  Willson,  paints  portraits  of 
Cabinet,  153 

Peale,  Rembrandt,  paints  Calhoun's  por- 
trait, 153 

Pendleton  (S.  Cl),  172-175 


INDEX 

Pendleton  (S.  C.)  Farmers'  Society,  178- 
179 

Pennsylvania,  fails  to  endorse  Calhoun  for 
Presidency  (1824),  151 ;  endorses  Jack- 
son, 155 

Pennsylvania  Bank,  and  Panic  of  1837,  326 

Pensacola,  123 

Perry,  Benjamin  F.,  236 ;  on  Calhoun,  394 

Petersburg,  pays  respects  to  Calhoun,  513 

Petersburg  Courier,  94 

Petigru,  James  L.,  230 

Petition,  right  of,  debated.  310 

Phi  Beta  Kappa  (Yale),  25;  Calhoun 
elected  to,  24 

Phillips,  Billy,  82 

Philadelphia  Public  Ledger,  496,  503,  506 

Philadelphia  Sentinel,  on  Clay-Calhoun 
Tariff  Compromise  (1833),  255 

Pickens,  Francis,  184,  334,  392,  417 

Pickens,  Israel,  88 

Pinckney,  Charles  Cotesworth,  178 

Pinckney,  Maria,  238 

Pioneer  movement,  399 

Planter  economy,  175-177 

Poindexter,  George,  69 

Poinsett,  Joel,  223-224,  236,  237 ;  as  Sec- 
retary of  State,  159 

Politics,  corruption  in,  403 

Polk,  James  K.,  elected  President,  379; 
offers  Calhoun  post  at  Court  of  St. 
James's,  424;  discusses  Oregon  with 
Calhoun,  434-435 ;  accepts  defeat  on 
Oregon,  438;  orders  General  Taylor  to 
Rio  Grande,  439 ;  and  war  with  Mexico, 
439—444 ;  attempts  to  end  Mexican  War, 
447-448;  on  Calhoun,  468,  476 

Poore,  Ben:  Perley,  272 

Porter,  Captain  David,  commands  Essex, 
83 

Porter,  Peter  Buell,  69,  72 

Postoffice,  raided  in  Charleston  (S.  C), 
388 

Powers,  Hiram,  225 

Presidential  campaigns  (1816),  117; 
(1824),  most  scurrilous,  148 

Presidential  election  (1824),  139-159; 
confidence  of  candidates,  147 ;  news- 
papers in,  148-150;  criticism  of,  158- 
159 

Presidential  receptions,  Jackson's,  271 ; 
Tyler's,  376 

President's  Palace.  See  White  House 

Preston,  Robert,  on  abolitionists,  293 

Preston,  William  Campbell,  106,  437,  466 

Protective  tariff,  112-114.  See  also  Tariff 

Punishment,  for  crimes,  48 

Quincy,  John,  on  Calhoun  as  Vice-Presi- 
dent, 160 

Quincy,  Josiah,  71 ;  on  Anna  Maria  Cal- 
houn, 282 

'Qualifications  Necessary  to  Make  a 
Statesman,  The,'  32 

Railroads,  399;  expansion  of,  in  South, 
408-412 

Randolph,  John,  106,  162-163 ;  on  U.  S. 
boundaries,  20 ;  'Mad  Jack,'  72 ;  op- 
poses War  of  1812,  73 ;  contradicted  by 


INDEX 


S91 


Calhoun,  74;  Madison's  opinion  of,  74- 
75;  on  Foreign  Relations  Committee 
Report,  75 ;  rebuked  by  Calhoun,  76 ; 
and  declaration  of  War  of  1812,  87; 
on  Clay's  Presidential  aims,  107 ;  on 
tariff,  114;  opposition  to  Adams,  163; 
influence  on  Calhoun,  166;  predicts 
North-South  differences,  166,  186 ;  and 
cotton-slave  economy,  180 ;  defied  by 
McDuffie,  183 ;  on  Calhoun's  rebuke  of 
Van  Buren,  218;  on  conditions  in  South 
Carolina,  241 ;  supports  Calhoun,  253 

Randolph-Clay  duel,   165 

Reeves,  Judge  Topping,  36,  38 

Reporters,  newspaper,  opinions  of  Calhoun, 
279 

Republican  caucus,  54 

Republican  Party,  controlled  by  war  group, 
80 

Revenue  Collection  Bill.  See  Force  Bill 

Revolution,  American,  effect  of,  on  War 
of  1812,  67 

Rhett,  Albert,  463 

Rhett,  Robert  Barnwell,  185,  257,  490 

Richmond,  reception  to  General  Lafayette, 
152 ;  pays  respects  to  Calhoun,  513 

Richmond  Enquirer,  77 

Right  of  petition,  debated,  310 

Rioting,  between  Nullifiers  and  Unionists, 
237 

Ritchie,  Thomas,  140 ;  on  Calhoun's  speech, 

River  travel,  414-416 

Robinson's  Summer  Coffee  House,  44 

Rodgers,  Commodore,  83 

Russell,  Jonathan,  73 

Rutherford,  William,  Jr.,  489 

St.  Mark's,  123 

Sawney,  9 

Schools.  See  Education 

Scott,  General  Winfield,  guards  Fort  Sum- 
ter,  239 

Scoville,  Joseph,  351,  482,  509 

Secession,  Timothy  Dwight  on,  28 ;  'right' 
of,  42 ;  Southern  idea  of,  in  1812,  75 ; 
threat  of,  by  New  England,  97;  South 
Carolina  and,  230 ;  compared  with  nulli- 
fication, 235-236 

Secessionists,  236.  See  also  Nullifiers 

Second  American  Revolution,  67-81.  See 
also  War  of  1812 

Second  National  Bank,  111-112.  See  also 
Bank  of  United  States 

Sectional  conflicts,  103 

Sectionalism,  Calhoun  on,  168 

Seminole  campaign,  aftermath  of,  207-208, 
214 

Seminole  Indian  uprisings,  123 

Senate,  votes  for  War  of  1812,  81  ;  Cal- 
houn presides  over,  164;  opposition  of, 
to  Adams  and  Calhoun,  163-164;  and 
Webster-Hayne  debate,  209;  ignores 
Calhoun's  resignation  as  Vice-President, 
240 ;  censures  Jackson,  265 ;  dignity  in, 
274-275 ;  slavery  question  in  (1835- 
1861),  307-309;  and  Treaty  of  Annexa- 
tion, 371 ;  divided  on  Sub-Treasury  Bill, 
338;  Clay  and  Calhoun  quit,  349-350; 


dishonesty  in,  403-404;  debates  Oregon, 
435;  on  Oregon  boundary,  438;  and 
Wilmot  Proviso,  446;  Calhoun  submits 
resolutions  to,  451—452 

Seward,  Senator  William  H.,  333,  456,  484 

Sherman,  Roger,  27 

Sherman,  Sarah,  26-27 

Silliman,  Professor  Benjamin,  21,  156, 
.306,  511 

Simms,  William  Gilmore,  225 

Singleton,  Angelica,  343-344 

Singleton,  Mary  Rebecca,  183 

Slave  economy,  175—177;  toleration  of,  325 

Slave  trading,  illegal,  333 

Slaveholders,  responsibilities  to  slaves, 
290;  in  South,  291;  financial  responsi- 
bilities of,  295 ;  punished  for  mistreating 
slaves,  297 

Slavery,  284^315 ;  in  Connecticut,  40-41 ; 
Calhoun's  ideas  on,  115;  not  cause  of 
Civil  War,  170;  hurts  South  indus- 
trially, 175 ;  South  aware  of  evils  of, 
228-229;  an  economic  question,  291; 
a  social  question,  293 ;  cruelties  in,  298 ; 
not  issue  which  dissolved  Union,  306 ; 
no  longer  necessary,  306 ;  action  on,  in 
Senate,  307-309;  attacks  on,  in  Con- 
gress, 311-314;  North  on,  333-334;  in 
Texas,  357,  366-367;  spread  of,  404; 
in  territories,  450;  not  considered  an 
evil,  453;  Calhoun  on,  469-470 

Slaves,  on  Calhoun's  plantation,  284-291 ; 
responsibility  of  owners,  290 ;  emanci- 
pation of,  294 ;  insurrection  of,  297 ; 
opportunities  for,  300.  See  also  Negroes 

Smihe,  John,  72 

Smith,  Ashbel,  359 

Smith,  Mrs.  Margaret  Bayard,  34,  156, 
196,  216;  on  burning  of  Washington,  92 

Smith,  William,  393 

Soil  erosion,  385-386 

South,  attitude  of,  toward  Federal  Govern- 
ment, 174—175  ;  economic  life,  175 ;  and 
tariff :  186 ;  economy  of,  189 ;  status  of 
individual  in,  205 ;  differs  from  North, 
206 ;  aware  of  evils  of  slavery,  228-229  ; 
nullification  an  alien  doctrine  to,  233 ; 
slaveholders  in,  291 ;  abolitionist  socie- 
ties in,  296 ;  economy  of  North  a  threat 
to,  305  ;  effect  on,  of  Panic  of  1837,  327 ; 
economic  interests  vs.  North,  332 ;  and 
annexation  of  Texas,  367 ;  and  slavery, 
404,  447;  morals  of,  404-7405;  ideas  of 
money  in,  405 ;  on  abolitionists,  405 ; 
ignorant  of  North's  problems,  406 ;  on 
Wilmot  Proviso,  446 ;  in  minority,  450 ; 
platform  of,  454-455  ;  Calhoun  on,  468— 
469;  constitutional  rights  of,  472-474; 
Calhoun's  attempt  t9  unite,  480-482  ; 
defies  Wilmot  Proviso,  481 ;  attitude 
toward  dissolving  Union,  486^487 ;  Cal- 
houn presents  position  of,  in  Senate, 
491 ;  pays  respects  to  Calhoun,  495-496  ; 
Calhoun's  love  for,  519 

South  America,  Europe's  designs  on,  127 

South  Carolina,  justice  in,  48 ;  Calhoun  as 
legislator,  52-54 ;  sectional  controls,  in 
legislature,  54 ;  up-country  obtains  voice 
in  legislature,  55 ;  angry  with  Calhoun, 


592 

117;  and  tariffs,  167,  230-231;  and 
nullification  crisis,  185 ;  and  secession, 
230 ;  debates  nullification  and  secession, 
236-237;  and  Nullification  Convention, 
237-240;  nullifies  Federal  Tariff  Act, 
238;  ignores  Jackson's  proclamation, 
238;  arms  for  enforcement  of  its 
claims,  239 ;  threats  of  war  and  secession 
in,  239 ;  Jackson  to  force  retention  in 
Union,  242 ;  Jackson  calls  for  arms  to 
enforce  order  in,  246 ;  Federal  troops 
to  occupy,  254;  loyalty  to  Calhoun,  421 ; 
Calhoun's  love  for,  519 

South  Carolina  Gazette,  12 

South- Western  Convention,  413,  416-418 

Southard,  Samuel  L.,  as  Secretary  of 
Navy,  159  • 

Southern  economy,  291-292,  330;  Calhoun 
on,  170 

Southern  Review f  417 

Southern  sub-committee,  476.  See  also 
Committee  of  Fifteen 

Spain,  agents  of,  incite  Seminoles,  123 

Speaker  of  House,  choosing  of,  68 

Specie  vs.  paper,  95 

States'  rights,  144,  166,  416;  Calhoun  on, 
218,  231-233;  and  preservation  of 
South,  306 

Stephens,  Alexander  H.,  333,  422,  456, 
476,  511 

Sterling,  Micah,  23,  147 

Stewart,  Charles,  103 

Story,  Joseph,  274;  agrees  with  Jackson 
on  nullification,  238 

Sub-Treasury  Bill,  336,  466 ;  becomes  law, 
341 

Suffrage,  restrictions  on,  declining,  303 

Sundays,  observance  of,  39 

Supreme  Court,  274 

Swain,  William,  302 

Swift,  J.  G.,  136,  160 

Taggart,  Rev.  Samuel,  71 

Tammany  Hall,  351 

Tariff,  171,  182;  protective,  112-114;  of 
1828,  167 ;  a  cause  of  Civil  War,  170  ; 
North-South  ideas  on  conflict,  186; 
South  Carolina  on,  230-231 ;  Calhoun 
on,  231 ;  modified  bill,  255 ;  issue  on 
which  Union  dissolved,  306;  and  Loan 
Bill,  346-349 

Tariff  of  Abominations,  170,  190 

Taylor,  John,  102,   104,  145 

Taylor,  Zachary,  457 

Tazewell,  Littleton,  179,  259 

Tazewell-Calhoun  correspondence,  181 

Texas,  356-381 ;  slavery  in,  357,  366-367 ; 
Tyler  favors  annexation  of,  358;  atti- 
tudes of  North  and  South  on,  367 ;  atti- 
tude of  Mexico  and  England,  369-370; 
Treaty  of  Annexation,  371 ;  annexation 
of,  a  possible  cause  for  war,  372-375 ; 
treaty  rejected,  377 ;  occupied  by  U.  S. 
forces,  379 ;  invited  into  Union,  381 ; 
annexation  of,  and  war  with  Mexico, 
450 

Texas  Treaty  of  Annexation,  rejected,  377 

Thayer,  Sylvanus,  130 


INDEX 

Timberiake,  Peggy  O'Neil,  193.  See  also 
Eaton,  Peggy  O'Neil  Timberiake 

Tippecanoe,  battle  of,  73 

Town  meeting,  40 

Toombs,  Robert,  468,  476 

Travel,  by  river  boat  (1845),  414-416. 

Treason,  Jackson  charges  Calhoun  with, 
245 

Treatise  on  Domestic  Pleading,  38 

Treaty  of  1818,  433 

Trollope,  Mrs.  Frances,  on  America,  204, 
205  ;  on  Washington,  274 

Tucker,  Beverly,  475,  505 

Tucker,  Henry  St.  George,  374 

Tyler,  John,  217;  opposes  Force  Bill,  252; 
elected  Vice-President  (1840),  344-345; 
as  President,  349 ;  grossly  underesti- 
mated, 357-359  ;  marries  Julia  Gardiner, 
359,  377 ;  appoints  Calhoun  Secretary  of 
State,  362 ;  receptions  of,  376 

Tyler,  Mrs.  Robert,  on  Calhoun  and  Web- 
ster, 422-423 

Union,  dissolution  of,  486,  491-494 

Unionists,  236-237 

Unitarianism,  at  Yale,  28 

United  States  Bank,  Bonus  Bill,  116,  and 

Panic  of   1833,  262.  See  also  Bank  of 

United  States 
Upshur,  Secretary  of  State,  359,  360 

Van  Buren,  President  Martin,  161,  207, 
259,  335,  353;  a  New  York  boss,  155; 
uses  Peggy  O'Neil  to  influence  Jackson, 
200-201 ;  advanced  to  Presidency  by  in- 
trigue, 215;  kills  Calhoun's  chances  for 
Presidency,  216 ;  Senate  refuses  con- 
firmation of  appointment  as  Minister  to 
Court  of  St.  James's,  216-217 ;  as  Vice- 
President,  275 ;  on  Benton-Calhoun 
affair,  278  ;  and  Panic  of  1837,  326-329  ; 
and  Sub-Treasury  Bill,  336;  defeat  of, 
for  re-election  (1840),  344;  Calhoun's 
friendship  a  political  necessity,  366 

Van  Schaick,  Myndert,  332 

Van  Rensselaer,  Stephen,  deciding  vote  of, 
in  1824  election,  157 

Venable,  Dr.  Abraham,  463,  474,  510 

Von  Hoist,  462 

Vigilance  and  Safety  Committee,  481 

Village  life,  in  South  Carolina,  8 

Virginia,  pays  respects  to  Calhoun,  513 

Virginia  Free  Press,  500 

Virginia  Resolutions,  168,  185,  232 

Waddel,  Moses,  6 ;  marries  Catherine  Cal- 
houn, 6 ;  as  Calhoun's  teacher,  6 ;  acad- 
emy of,  14—15 

Walker,  Robert,  380 

Walsh,  Mike,  303,  403;  on  Calhoun  for 
President,  352 

War  Boys,  ranks  thinned,  96 

War  Department,  inefficiency  in,  120 ;  de- 
scription of  office,  120 ;  Calhoun  reor- 
ganizes, 128;  Calhoun's  policy  for,  131 

War  of  1812,  67-81 ;  use  of  Indians  in, 
69 ;  England  plans  for,  69 ;  Randolph 
opposes,  73 ;  preparations  for,  73,  79 ; 


INDEX 

American  strength,  ^83;  naval  battles, 
83 ;  Canadian  campaign,  84 ;  could  have 
been  averted,  85 ;  failures  in,  86 ;  end  of, 
99  ;  and  later  Anglo-American  unity,  99— 
100 ;  United  States  becomes  world  power 
through,  101;  popularity  of,  101;  inter- 
national effect  of,  101 
War  Hawks,  69;  reaction  to  Calhoun's 
censuring  Randolph,  77;  plan  to  divide 
Canada,  80;  graduated  from  Congress, 
161 

War  Mess,  boarding  house,  87 
War  Between  the  States.  See  Civil  War 
Washington,  on  eve  of  War  of  1812,  67; 
physical  appearance  (1811),  71;  amuse- 
ments in,   77;   living  conditions  in,   87; 
burned  by  British,  91-93  ;   1815  season, 
105  ;  pettiness  and  gossip  in,    192-202 ; 


369;  'sink  of  corruption*  (1845),  403; 
in  1846,  422-423.  See  also  Georgetown 

Washington  Republican,  supports  Calhoun, 
149 

Webster,  Daniel,  1,  9,  104,  162,  272,  349, 
403,  488,  484,  513;  platform  on  which 
elected,  84 :  appointed  to  House  Foreign 
Relations  Committee,  84 ;  and  attitude 
of  Europe  (1812),  85;  on  Washington 
amusements,  87 ;  on  Non-Intercourse 
Act,  90 ;  on  Dallas  plan,  95 ;  on  con- 
scription, 97;  an  unknown  quantity, 
107;  on  Second  Bank  of  United  States, 
112,  265;  candidate  for  President,  139; 
on  Calhoun  for  President,  139 ;  and  Cal- 
houn's visit  to  Boston,  139 ;  on  Jackson's 
followers,  197 ;  on  Jackson's  inaugura- 
tion, 203  ;  debates  with  Hayne,  209-211 ; 
agrees  with  Jackson  on  nullification, 
238;  withholds  aid  to  Jackson,  248; 
shocked  by  Calhoun's  speech  on  Force 
Bill,  251;  Calhoun's  reply  to,  253-254; 
supports  Calhoun  on  Texas,  380 ;  offers 
Calhoun  loan,  418;  on  Fugitive  Slave 


593 

Law,  471-472;  compromise  with  Clay, 
488;  on  South's  position,  494;  visits 
Calhoun,  497-498;  eulogizes  Calhoun, 
512 

Webster,  Noah,  on  Ajnerican  language, 
205 

Webster,  Reuben,  37 

Webster-Hayne  debates,  209-211 

Wentworth,  John,   462-463 

West,  and  Civil  War,  407;  Calhoun's  in- 
terest in,  408 

West  Point,  student  strike  at,  130 

Wharton,  Francis,  379 

Wheeling  Gazette,  496 

Whitcomb,  James,  490 

White  House,  105 ;  Jackson's  inaugural  at, 
197 

White,  John,  225 

Whitehead,  Amos,  23 

Whitman,  Dr.  Marcus,  358,  427,  428,  430 

Whitman,  Narcissa,  428 

Williams,  Lemuel,  351 

Willis,  Nathaniel,  422,  474 

Wilmot,  David,  446 

Wilmot  Proviso,  446,  447;  South  defies, 
481 

Wirt,  William,  168,  215;  as  Attorney- 
General,  125,  126;  and  campaign  of 
1824,  142 

Wise,  Henry,  361 

Women,  education  of,  402 

Women's  Rights,  38 

Works,  Calhoun's,  419-531 

Wyeth,  Nathaniel  J.,  427 

Yale,  Calhoun's  responsibilities  at,  16; 
campus,  16-18;  curriculum,  19;  life  at, 
19,  21-22;  library,  20;  faculty,  21; 
purpose  of  education,  22  ;  religion  at,  22  ; 
Calhoun's  classes  at,  23 ;  literary  socie- 
ties at,  25-26 ;  Unitarianism  at,  28 ; 
Calhoun's  comments  on,  31  ;  'Conic  Sec- 
tions Rebellion,'  219 ;  Andrew  Calhoun 
at,  218-2] 9 

Yancey,  Bob,  49