No American president, not even Abraham Lincoln, rose from a humbler hole than Andrew Johnson. While Lincoln came from a lowly log cabin, Johnson’s roots reached right into a seedy tavern where his parents were illiterate servants. And thus, on the morning of March 4, 1865, when the Tennessee tailor-turned-politician found himself about to take the oath of office as Lincoln’s vice president, it was the crowning glory of not only his life, but American Democracy as well.
That day, suffering from a severe hangover and a case of nerves, Johnson slugged down two giant jolts of brandy just before his acceptance speech in the Senate. After a brief and “sensible” address by outgoing vice president, Hannibal Hamlin, the new VP arose to face not only the joint session of Congress, but President Lincoln, the Supreme Court, world ambassadors decked in their court finery, and gaily dressed ladies in the gallery, including Mary Lincoln. With the Civil War on its last leg, everyone was in a festive mood. That soon changed. Instead of taking the oath of office then and there, Johnson plunged straight away into his acceptance speech.
“I’m a-goin’ for to tell you–here today; yes, I’m a-goin’ for to tell you all, that I’m a plebian!” Johnson announced proudly. “I glory in it; I am a plebian! The people – yes, the people of the United States have made me what I am; and I am a-goin’ to tell you here today – yes, today, in this place – that the people are everything.”
Mumbling one moment, shouting the next, the unsteady speaker paused from time to time as if awaiting the “amens” and “huzzahs” that typically accompanied a backwoods stump speech. Although allotted only seven minutes to speak, the wobbling, hiccuping vice president soon became oblivious to time. With a ludicrous mix of maudlin sentimentality and drunken defiance, Johnson’s nearly incoherent harangue only occasionally touched upon something sensible, such as his “fel’ cissons” and the “conshushun.” At one point, the drunk turned and began addressing the cabinet members by name. When he reached Gideon Welles, the vice president paused. “What is the name of the Secretary of the Navy?” he asked someone nearby. When told, Johnson continued as if nothing had happened.
As the silence deepened and the drunken display continued, Republicans senators and congressmen visibly reddened and hung their heads. Meanwhile, Democrats openly laughed.
I’ze born in Tensee an I’m a tailor an a pleban (hic). We’re all plebeans, an I propose to sustain (hic) the constitution, an I propose to support the constitution (hic) fer all plebeans.
Soon, a smattering of shocked voices from the gallery became a disgusted roar: “He is drunk.” “He is crazy.” “This is disgraceful.” “Tell him him to stop and save the country further disgrace.” Finally, wrote one relieved senator, following some tugging and no little verbal persuasion, Johnson was “suppressed.” The reeling vice president was then given the oath.
“When Johnson had repeated inaudibly the oath of office,” noted one of those there, “he turned and took the Bible in his hand, and, facing the audience, said, with a loud, theatrical voice and gesture, ‘I kiss this Book in the face of my nation of the United States.’”
No sooner had the Tennessean acted out this ridiculous scene than he tried to launch into another rant. As if the disgrace were not already great enough, one final insult awaited. Because he was the incoming vice president, it was Johnson’s job to swear in newly elected senators. As the eight men approached the bar, in a melodramatic manner the drunk extended the Bible that each might touch it and bow their heads in reverence. Before the bewildered men could be administered the oath, however, Johnson simply waved them away. At length, the clerk of the senate recalled the senators and all were duly sworn in.
Humiliated more than any person present – with the possible exception of his furious wife – Abraham Lincoln “bowed his head with a look of unutterable despondency.” Although deeply shamed by the incident, Lincoln later defended his political partner against charges of chronic drunkenness. The howl from other quarters though, was swift and savage.
“Not even in the presence of the United States Senate, in the presence of the American people, in the presence of the world, with millions regarding his action and awaiting his utterance, could he summon enough energy and self-denial to remain sober until the brief ordeal was over,” raged one New York editor. Johnson’s drunken display, concluded the newsman, “would shame a rowdy at the threshold of a tavern.”
Certainly, sobriety was never a test for membership in the US Senate. Shameless scenes of drunkenness had occurred with regularity. But never before had the eyes of the world been so riveted on the American capital, and never before had such a “drunken clown” been but a heart beat from the presidency. “To know that this debauched demagogue is only withheld by the thread of a single life from the presidential chair, is appalling to every American,” reflected one of the many horrified citizens.
Within two months, that “thread” was, of course, severed at Ford’s Theater and the nation did indeed get Andy Johnson for its leader. Fortunately, far from a rustic inebriate, the new president would prove a strong-willed, serious, sober, if much-maligned man.
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