[From the John Bull, London, April 29. 1865]
the news from america.
Among all the surprises by which this wonderful war in America has been signalized, none is so amazing in its dramatic outburst—none so fraught with the elements of pity and horror as the fall of Abraham Lincoln, in the proudest moment of his triumph, by an assassin’s dastard blow. The story discloses just such an argument as would have impressed itself most forcibly on the imagination of a Greek dramatist; indeed it may almost be said to be but a repetition of that tragic theme which the greatest of Greek dramatists has wrought out with such consummate genius. Agamemnon returning to his home at the summit of his pride—“the lord of ships and conqueror of Troy”—only to perish at his own threshold by the stab of a murderess, does but stand out of the old epic legend as a type of the late President as he sat in the theatre on that eventful evening of the 14th of April. For four terrible years Mr. Lincoln had borne the weight of the most fearful responsibility which was ever cast upon man. He had felt himself called upon by an imperious sense of duty to plunge his country into a civil war, and he had seen that war deepen and widen beyond all calculations that could have been formed—he had seen the opposition arrayed against him erect itself into a power which bade fair to beat back even the swarming soldiery which his vast resources had enabled him to call forth—and had still held on with a tenacity which all must own to be heroic, and which would have been sublime if it had been shown in a better cause. And now it seemed as if the reward had come. The North had at all events made up its mind that the capture of Richmond and the surrender of Lee amounted to a virtual overthrow of the “rebellion;” and when Mr. Lincoln took his seat in the theatre it was perhaps under haughtier circumstances of success than ever a ruler of men secured for a public appearance. He has wrestled with the Titans, so he may think, and has overthrown them. There is a yet more difficult task before him—the task of reconstruction. But there is a glory about this task that may well compensate for the difficulty. If he can accomplish it, surely his name will be one of the most memorable in history. As he stands between so grand a past and so glorious a future, the foot of the crawling assassin is behind him, and he drops a dying man on the floor.
Who shall say that we live in a tame and prosaic age in the face of the marvels which recent events in America have yielded us? It has been a surprise to many to see the utter bouleversement of those theories which were built on the assumed regard of Americans for popular rights—to find the solemn formula that all legitimate power is based on the will of the people, treated with as much contumely by the northern majority as ever it could have been by some incarnation of oriental despotism decked with all the pomp of barbaric pearl and gold. Those shrewd observers, who were fully prepared to see the greed and insolence of human nature crop out under the brave words which inaugurated American republicanism, were still confounded by the unexpected tenacity with which the American people, both North and South, clung through blood and ruin to the purpose which they had respectively formed, carried forward to the most terrific reality that which was at first regarded as merely a game of brag, and [Page 408] gave conclusive evidence that even in America there are popular passions astir that can at once override the influence of the “almighty dollar.” The most sanguine calculations as to the resources of America must have been dwarfed by the stupendous efforts made on both sides, and the gigantic scale on which the war has been carried on. And it is more startling than all—to an Englishman no less startling than humiliating—to find that, while among ourselves the outbreak of a war passion is assuming a more and more debased type, all the ferocities engendered by civil discord were not sufficient to prevent the Americans from carrying into their great contest much of that chivalry and generosity which was characteristic of medieval warfare. The worst atrocities of Butler leave him a paladin and courteous knight in comparison with many an English “officer and gentleman” who claimed honor and reward at the hands of his country for services rendered during the Indian mutiny. The most rowdy journals of New York would never have stooped to degrade themselves to the brutalized level of our Anglo-Indian press at the same period. And if there were at the time of which we speak peculiar circumstances of aggravation that might palliate the popular yell for blood, we must not forget that during the Russian war—a struggle remarkably free from any elements of popular excitement—many of our journals at home turned the same cowardly thirst for human slaughter to excellent pecuniary account as far as they themselves were concerned, and left us to bear the discredit and the pain of so unpleasant a remembrance. And now, last of all, comes this assassination of the President, rivalling in its appalling interest the blow which Brutus struck at the foot of Pompey’s statue, the murder of Henri IV, and the avenging arm of Charlotte Corday uplifted over Marat’s bath.
What will be the result of this foul crime, and in what manner is it likely to modify the future history of America? It is difficult to speculate on the answer to this question. Mr. Lincoln had not certainly during the period of his power shown himself a statesman of high capacity. It may be doubted whether if he had had the opportunity he would have proved himself equal to the herculean and delicate task of reconstructing the American Union—even assuming that its constituent States are willing to be united.