It was this mere envelope of the genius that was deplorably evident on the journey from Springfield to Washington.  There was one detail of the journey that gave his enemies a more definite ground for sneering.  By the irony of fate, the first clear instance of Lincoln’s humility, his reluctance to set up his own judgment against his advisers, was also his first serious mistake.  There is a distinction here that is vital.  Lincoln was entering on a new role, the role of the man of action.  Hitherto all the great decisions of his life had been speculative; they had developed from within; they dealt with ideas.  The inflexible side of him was intellectual.  Now, without any adequate apprenticeship, he was called upon to make practical decisions, to decide on courses of action, at one step to pass from the dream of statecraft to its application.  Inevitably, for a considerable time, he was two people; he passed back and forth from one to the other; only by degrees did he bring the two together.  Meanwhile, he appeared contradictory.  Inwardly, as a thinker, his development was unbroken; he was still cool, inflexible, drawing all his conclusions out of the depths of himself.  Outwardly, in action, he was learning the new task, hesitatingly, with vacillation, with excessive regard to the advisers whom he treated as experts in action.  It was no slight matter for an extraordinarily sensitive man to take up a new role at fifty-two.

This first official mistake of Lincoln’s was in giving way to the fears of his retinue for his safety.  The time had become hysterical.  The wildest sort of stories filled the air.  Even before he left Springfield there were rumors of plots to assassinate him.(6) On his arrival at Philadelphia information was submitted to his companions which convinced them that his life was in danger—­an attempt would be made to kill him as he passed through Baltimore.  Seward at Washington had heard the same story and had sent his son to Philadelphia to advise caution.  Lincoln’s friends insisted that he leave his special train and proceed to Washington with only one companion, on an ordinary night train.  Railway officials were called in.  Elaborate precautions were arranged.  The telegraph lines were all to be disconnected for a number of hours so that even if the conspirators—­assuming there were any—­should discover his change of plan, they would be unable to communicate with Baltimore.  The one soldier in the party, Colonel Sumner, vehemently protested that these changes were all “a damned piece of cowardice.”  But Lincoln acquiesced in the views of the majority of his advisers.  He passed through Baltimore virtually in disguise; nothing happened; no certain evidence of a conspiracy was discovered.  And all his enemies took up the cry of cowardice and rang the changes upon it.(7)