Centennial Crisis
Either party can afford to be disappointed by the result, but the Country cannot afford to have the result tainted by the suspicion of illegal or false returns.
Early on the morning of May 10, 1876, thousands thronged Philadelphia’s streets. To the accompaniment of church bells, people made their way to the Centennial Exposition at Fairmount Park in horse-drawn streetcars, carriages, barouches, furniture wagons, butcher cars, hearses, hacks, even baggage vans. Visitors from New York, Washington, and points north, south, and west arrived by train at the new three-tiered Pennsylvania Railroad depot.
The leaden skies gave way to sunshine just in time for the nine A.M. opening of the gates. At noon, after a prayer by Bishop Matthew Simpson and a recitation of John Greenleaf Whittier’s “Centennial Hymn,” Grant rose to speak: “One hundred years ago our country was new, and but partially settled.” He now encouraged his audience to enjoy an exposition that would “show in the direction of rivaling older and more advanced nations in law, medicine, and theology—in science literature, philosophy, and the fine arts.”
Looming inside the gates were the vast Main Exhibition Hall, the towers of Machinery Hall, the numerous barns of the Agricultural Hall, the art galleries of Memorial Hall, and the eye-popping innovations in Horticultural Hall. Between May 10 and November 10, 8,804,631 persons would visit the Centennial Exposition, timed to celebrate the one hundredth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. Factoring in repeat visitors, it is estimated that one in fifteen Americans in a nation of forty million paid the 50 cents to enter.
Grant advocated for the federal government’s financial support for the 1876 Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia.
ONE MONTH AFTER he opened the exposition, Grant determined to stay on the sidelines when Republicans gathered for their sixth national convention in Cincinnati. Unlike in 1868, when he stood far above other contenders, in 1876 there would be no dearth of popular candidates. Newspapers singled out Speaker of the House James G. Blaine, Secretary of the Treasury Benjamin Bristow, and Senators Roscoe Conkling and Oliver Morton as leading contestants. In the second rank stood Pennsylvania governor John Hartranft, Ohio governor Rutherford B. Hayes, and Connecticut’s Marshall Jewell, whom Grant had appointed postmaster general in 1874.
Grant believed the convention might find itself at an impasse and possibly turn to a dark horse. If that happened, he had his candidate: “I fixed on Fish.” Just in case, he “wrote a letter to be used at the proper time.”
On Wednesday, June 14, delegates crammed into a hall, “its architecture that of an ambitious and disappointed railroad depot, its decorations those of a country barbecue,” according to the New York Tribune. Blaine led with 285 votes—378 were needed for victory—followed by Morton, 124; Bristow, 113; Conkling, 99; Hayes, 61; Hartranft, 58; and Jewell, 11. Blaine’s backers were confident the man they called their “plumed knight” would sweep to victory.
Delegates cast ballot after ballot. Maine’s Blaine continued to lead into the sixth ballot—then everything changed. As Grant predicted, a dark horse emerged on the seventh ballot: a war veteran wounded severely at South Mountain, now a politician with little Washington experience. Rutherford B. Hayes, who had bucked the Democratic landslide of 1874 to win a sharply contested Ohio governor’s race in 1875, defeated Blaine 384 to 351, winning the nomination. Even his supporters admitted Hayes lacked the heroic appeal of Grant, the speaking ability of Blaine, the intellectual perspicacity of Morton, or the effusive personality of Conkling. But backers celebrated him as a man of personal integrity, a characteristic that commended Hayes given the recent spate of political scandals.
That evening Grant telegraphed Hayes, “I congratulate you and feel the greatest assurance that you will occupy my present position on the Fourth of March next.” His congratulation conveyed no special enthusiasm for a man he barely knew. Most dispiriting, he learned that Hayes promised to allow southern states to resume self-governance. To Grant, this would be a betrayal of the Reconstruction measures he had strongly advocated for the past eight years, in particular the defense of the rights of African Americans.
ELEVEN DAYS AFTER the Republican convention, Democrats convened in St. Louis. A divided party in 1872 when they felt forced to ratify the candidacy of Liberal Republican Horace Greeley, delegates came to the first national political convention held west of the Mississippi sensing success could be theirs at last in 1876. Unlike the Republicans, the Democrats boasted an acknowledged front-runner. Samuel J. Tilden, reform-minded governor of New York, had faced down both “Boss” William Tweed and the infamous “canal ring” that had made millions by overcharging the construction and maintenance of the New York State barge canal system. Tilden had transformed himself into a good speaker by studying Fourth of July orations to find reform themes to build into his speeches. He became a millionaire by his thirties through shrewd financial investments. As a Democrat, he had opposed Republican Abraham Lincoln’s “strong executive” approach to government during the Civil War and vowed he would scale back Grant’s use of executive authority. Six other candidates, including Union general Winfield Scott Hancock, competed for the nomination. On June 29, Tilden won easily on the second ballot. A united Democratic party left St. Louis confident of victory.
MEANWHILE, AT THE Centennial Exposition a bust of Frederick Douglass sculpted by blind artist Johnson M. Mundy sat in a lonely exhibition—lonely because African Americans were largely absent from the centennial. By 1876, the endeavor to reconstruct the nation on a platform of civil rights for the freedmen had essentially ended. The bust became a silent witness to a dream denied.
Blind artist Johnson M. Mundy’s bust of Frederick Douglass was proudly displayed at the Centennial Exposition—from which African Americans were largely absent.
A month earlier, Grant had gone as honored guest to a speech by Douglass for the dedication of the Freedman’s Memorial eleven blocks east of the Capitol. With an initial gift of $5 from former slave Charlotte Scott—her first earned money as a free woman—the funds for the statue were raised by freed blacks, primarily African American Union army veterans. American sculptor Thomas Ball depicted Abraham Lincoln as the Great Emancipator, clasping the Emancipation Proclamation in his right hand, while with his left hand he reached out to a kneeling slave. After his initial sketch of the slave appeared too passive to the sponsoring commission, Ball redrew the statue to depict a muscular former slave with shackles freshly broken.
Douglass, at fifty-nine a striking figure with his white hair and beard, offered qualified praise for Lincoln: “Abraham Lincoln was not, in the fullest sense of the word, either our man or model.” Forgotten through the years because of its criticism of Lincoln, the speech did offer an unqualified tribute to Grant. Douglass declared the dedication took place “in the presence and under the steady eye of the honored and trusted President of the United States.” “Trusted” was a special word seldom used in the Douglass lexicon—a singular encomium because Douglass did not trust white leaders. The fiery reformer would later say of Grant, “He was the first of our generals to see that slavery must perish that the Union might live, and to protect colored soldiers from insult by military order.” For Douglass, Grant’s actions spoke louder than his words: “The black soldier was welcome in his tent, and the freedman in his house.” Douglass accorded Grant the honor of pulling the cord to unveil the twelve-foot-high statue.
AS CENTENNIAL MANIA rose in the summer months, Grant accepted invitations from Christian and Jewish organizations wishing to promote their projects at the exposition and beyond. John Wanamaker, proprietor of Philadelphia’s first department store, owned the Sunday-School Times. He was always looking for ways to promote the popular and growing Sunday school movement. Wanamaker invited Grant to write a letter for the cover of a special edition of the Sunday-School Times to be handed out to exposition visitors.
On June 6, in his own hand, Grant wrote, “My advice to SUNDAY-SCHOOLS, no matter what their denomination, is: Hold fast to the Bible as the sheet-anchor of your liberties; write its precepts in your hearts, and PRACTISE THEM IN YOUR LIVES.” He concluded with words from the Old Testament: “Righteousness exalteth a nation; but sin is a reproach to any people.” Wanamaker believed Grant’s letter, seen by millions of visitors, lifted the Sunday-School Times to a new level of popularity.
Three days later, Grant accepted an invitation from Adolphus Solomons, a prominent Jewish leader who had convinced President Lincoln to appoint Jewish chaplains during the Civil War, to attend the dedication of Adas Israel synagogue in Washington. The synagogue, timing its event to coincide with the centennial celebrations, appreciated that Grant would be the first U.S. president to attend the dedication of a Jewish synagogue. In 1862, the general had been excoriated for his infamous order expelling “Jews as a class”; fourteen years later, he was welcomed by the Jews as a friend.
In July, when the annual convention of the council of the Union of American Hebrew Congregations met in Washington, Grant invited the delegates to the White House. Upon being introduced to Isaac Mayer Wise, foremost Jewish educator and author, Grant is reported to have said, “I know all about you, Doctor, especially in connection with Order No. 11.” Grant’s genuine mortification over his prejudicial wartime order fueled his desire to make amends.
GRANT WAS BOTH absent and present in the 1876 presidential campaign. Following traditional nineteenth-century patterns, neither Hayes nor Tilden campaigned. Instead, surrogates spoke for the candidates. Grant decided not to speak for Hayes.
He was present in “Grantism”—the term used by Democrats to denigrate the scandals in his administration. Democrats also charged that Reconstruction under Grant was a failure. Samuel Bowles, reform-minded editor of Massachusetts’s Springfield Republican, spoke for much of the northern mood during the presidential campaign: “We must get rid of the Southern question.” The “Southern question” referred to what to do with the South in the post–Civil War years. Bowles, who broke with Grant to support the Liberal Republicans in 1872, endorsed Tilden in 1876, by which time northern sentiment—both Republican and Democrat—argued that the South should be left to deal with the African Americans in their states without any interference from the federal government.
Grant found himself decisively pulled into the presidential campaign by this same “Southern question.” It happened because of an event on the Fourth of July in Hamburg, South Carolina, a small town just across the Savannah River from Augusta, Georgia. Blacks, finding themselves under progressively stricter white control in the Deep South, sought safety in numbers by repopulating small rural towns.
On Independence Day, the proud local company of the South Carolina National Guard under the command of Captain D. I. “Doc” Adams began its annual patriotic celebration by marching down Market Street. Two young white planters, Thomas Butler and Henry Getzen, arrived in the middle of the afternoon and demanded the black militia move to the side of the road so their carriage could pass. After sharp words, with Adams arguing that the wide street provided plenty of room for the carriage to pass, the Union veteran gave an order for the black militia to part and let the carriage go on its way.
Two days later, the planters hurried to the local court to press charges against Adams for obstructing a public road. Former Confederate general Matthew C. Butler appeared as counsel for the plaintiffs, accompanied to the courthouse by about 150 paramilitary “Red Shirts” armed with shotguns, revolvers, pitchforks, and hoes. When Butler demanded the militia surrender and turn over their guns, they refused and barricaded themselves in their barracks. In the firefight that followed, a local white farmer was killed. The mob then gunned down Hamburg’s black town marshal. When the black militia learned the whites were bringing in a cannon from Augusta, they tried to escape in the night. The Red Shirts caught about two dozen of them, then formed a “dead ring” around the terrified black soldiers and chose four, whom they proceeded to murder one by one. The “Hamburg massacre” set the tone for violence in the weeks ahead, all aimed at suppressing black Republican votes in fall elections.
The Sumter True Southron captured the reaction of some white South Carolinians to the Hamburg violence in an editorial: “We may not be able to carry the state at the ballot box, but when it comes to a trial of the cartridge box we do not entertain any doubt of the result.” A coroner’s jury indicted ninety-four white men for the attack, including Butler. None were ever prosecuted.
Soon after, Grant received an appeal from Governor Daniel Chamberlain: “The effect of this massacre has been to cause wide spread terror and apprehension among the Colored race and the Republicans of this State.” Chamberlain, who came south in 1866 to plant cotton and make money, had become a reforming politician because of what he witnessed in the state. “There is little doubt that…a feeling of triumph and elation has been caused by this massacre, in the minds of a considerable part of the white people and Democrats.” Chamberlain reassured Grant he intended to do all he could do to stem the violence, but he asked, “Will the general government exert itself vigorously to repress violence in this State during the present campaign?”
Grant offered Chamberlain his full support: “The scene at Hamburg, as cruel, bloodthirsty, wanton, unprovoked, and as uncalled for as it was, is only a repetition of the course that has been pursued in other southern states within the last few years.” He went on: “How long these things are to continue, or what is to be the final remedy, the Great Ruler of the Universe only knows—But I have an abiding faith that the remedy will come, and come speedily, and earnestly hope it will come peacefully.” Grant assured the South Carolina governor, “I will give every aid for which I can find law, or constitutional power.”
But what aid could Grant realistically offer in the summer of 1876? In March, the Supreme Court in United States v. Cruikshank had emasculated the power of the federal government to enforce the civil rights amendments by ruling that the equal protection and due process clauses of the Fourteenth Amendment applied only to state actions, not the actions of individuals—thus overturning the convictions of all the white men who had been involved. Henceforth southern blacks would have to rely on southern courts for protection, which essentially meant no protection at all. To complicate Grant’s resolve, there was no longer a vigorous John Rawlins or Amos Akerman in his cabinet. He listened in dismay as members of his own Republican Party warned that federal action in the South would cripple Hayes’s chances in the North.
The violence in South Carolina continued. Former Confederate general Martin Gary established his “Plan of the Campaign of 1876,” whose point 12 enjoined, “Every Democrat must feel honor bound to control the vote of at least one negro.” Democrats understood they could not win elections unless they suppressed the votes of black Republicans. Torchlight rallies were held, more “rifle clubs” formed, all with the goal of “redeeming” South Carolina.
Chamberlain called for the rifle clubs to disperse. When they did not, in October he wrote Grant again about “insurrection and domestic violence.” Since he was “unable with any means at my command to suppress the same,” he pleaded for the president’s help.
Grant responded with a proclamation calling out “Rifle Clubs who ride up and down by day and night in arms, murdering some peaceable citizens and intimidating others.” Appealing to the mandate in the Constitution to “protect every State in this Union,” he warned, “It shall be lawful for the President of the United States…to employ such part of the land and naval forces as shall be judged necessary for the purpose of suppressing such insurrection.” Grant ordered “all persons engaged in said unlawful and insurrectionary proceedings to disperse and retire peaceably.” He directed Sherman to provide “all the available force” in the Atlantic Division “to carry out fully the spirit of the Proclamation.” Troops were stationed at turbulent points leading up to the election.
Grant’s strong orders maintained the peace in the final three weeks before the election. Although he endured criticism for this strong federal action, affirmation came from a surprising source. Old curmudgeon William Cullen Bryant, nationally acclaimed poet and longtime editor of the New York Evening Post, had long opposed military force in the South. Now, appalled by the violence, he applauded Grant’s proclamation and use of force.
ON ELECTION DAY, November 7, both Republicans and Democrats predicted victory. Despite a weather system that spread rain from New England to Georgia, a voter turnout of 81.8 percent of the entirely male electorate would rank as the highest in American history.
Ulysses and Julia were in Philadelphia as early results came in: Grant had accepted George Childs’s invitation to stay as the president prepared to close the Centennial Exposition on November 10. The first returns indicated Tilden had won a majority of the popular vote and 184 electoral votes—one short of the needed majority. Twenty electoral votes distributed among three southern states—Florida (4), Louisiana (8), and South Carolina (7)—and one western state—Oregon (1)—remained contested.
Grant awakened on Wednesday morning, November 8, to a muddle of contradictory newspaper headlines. Most touted Tilden’s victory. The New York Tribune headlined: AVE! CENTENNIAL SAM! Tilden’s leading southern enthusiast, Henry Watterson’s Louisville Courier-Journal, boasted: THANK THE LORD! BOYS WE’VE GOT EM. The Washington, D.C., National Republican captured the Republican mood: SUSPENSE, POSSIBLY TILDEN, HOPEFULLY, HAYES. The New York Herald asked, THE RESULT—WHAT IS IT?
Grant went with Childs to his office as publisher of the Philadelphia Public Ledger. Several of Childs’s Republican friends still hoped Hayes had won the election. Grant quietly demurred, “Gentlemen, it looks to me as if Mr. Tilden is elected.”
Hysteria reigned as conflicting reports spread. One question echoed on every street corner: Had the votes been counted fairly? Republicans were keenly aware that Democrats used intimidation to suppress the votes of black Republicans—historians estimate as many as 250,000 were prevented from voting in the 1876 elections.
Grant, who had gone to sleep the night before believing he could recede into the background, with public attention shifting to a president-elect, found himself in the middle of a disputed election. All eyes turned toward the president to see what he would do in this unprecedented state of affairs.
Grant immediately assured the American people that fairness would prevail. He wrote General in Chief Sherman: “Either party can afford to be disappointed in the result but the Country cannot afford to have the result tainted by the suspicion of illegal or false returns.”
In the midst of spreading anxiety, Grant returned to Washington and convened his first postelection cabinet meeting. He faced a divided group of cabinet officers. The conservative Fish counseled against using a mailed fist in the South. The secretary of state was countered by Interior Secretary Zachariah Chandler, a proponent of rough-and-tumble politics, as well as Attorney General Alphonso Taft and the new secretary of war, James D. Cameron. These three encouraged Grant to act decisively to protect Hayes and the interests of the Republican Party.
On the same day, Fish met with John Mosby, the former Confederate cavalry leader whose “Raiders” had caused Grant so much trouble during the war but had become one of the president’s strongest supporters among former Confederate military leaders. Offering a report that worried Fish, he emphasized that “the language of the Democrats now was more threatening and violent than that of the Southern men on the Election of Lincoln in 1860.” Mosby reported threats to assassinate Grant if Hayes was elected.
Tensions grew. On November 20, an unknown correspondent signing his name “A.M.B.” wrote Grant that he overheard two men “who were plotting your assassination” with a dagger while Grant walked alone on the streets of Washington. Two days later, Grant received a letter with a sketch of a skeleton in a casket and the caption “You are a doomed man.” The anonymous writer signed the letter “KKK.” Grant, who had previously dismissed threats on his life and walked without any security, ordered a heavier metal walking stick, confident he could fend off any attackers.
On a stormy Sunday, November 26, Grant summoned an emergency afternoon cabinet meeting. The night before, he had received a message from Governor Chamberlain. The South Carolina legislature was scheduled to meet the following Tuesday, and Chamberlain had learned that up to eight thousand members of “rifle clubs” were on their way to the capital to prevent their assembly. Chamberlain requested of Grant “troops as to give the legislature protection against unlawful force.”
This time, the cabinet united. Grant directed Secretary of War Cameron to order the military forces of the United States to be ready to maintain the government in the state of South Carolina in the face of forces too formidable to be resisted by the state. Initially, federal troops acted impartially, but on November 28, under Chamberlain’s direction, when Republican and Democratic legislators arrived, Republicans were admitted and Democrats barred.
When Grant heard this distressing news, he reached out to the leader of Tilden’s campaign, Abram S. Hewitt, inviting him to a meeting at the White House. Hewitt arrived having heard rumors that because of the disputed election, Grant might use troops to extend his presidency.
Grant was aware of the rumors and sought to put Hewitt at ease. Hewitt later recalled that in a candid conversation, Grant said “he longed for the day when he should be able to retire from office…he looked forward to the freedom which was in store for him.” Talking at length, Grant showed extensive knowledge about the difficulties in South Carolina; he believed Hayes would win there. When the conversation turned to Louisiana and its eight electoral votes, Grant said what he would tell Hewitt “must be in confidence.” Citing current voting returns, Grant was convinced “Tilden & Hendricks unquestionably had a majority” there. Because of this, he believed Tilden would be the next president. It certainly was not necessary for Grant to meet with the surprised Hewitt. Exhausted, already enthusiastic about a private trip to Great Britain and Europe immediately after stepping down as president, Grant offered his impartial good offices at this critical moment from an unexpected realization of “let us have peace.”
Hewitt bounced down the White House steps delighted at what he had heard. Grant intended to carry out the spirit of both houses of Congress—not just the Republican Senate. Immediately upon returning home, Hewitt dictated a long memorandum of their conversation for public release. He sent a second copy to the president, requesting him to provide corrections. Grant made none.
ON DECEMBER 6, electors met in state capitals to tabulate their electoral votes. In South Carolina, Louisiana, and Florida, two sets of electors cast differing votes. The contradictory results were conveyed to Washington. Fears arose that on March 4, 1877, two different presidents would be inaugurated.
Who was to count the votes? Traditionally, the vice president, who functioned as president of the Senate, counted the votes. But Henry Wilson had died in 1875. As Senate majority leader, Michigan senator Thomas W. Ferry had succeeded him as president of the Senate. Should Ferry have sole power to count disputed electoral votes?
Thomas Nast satirized the 1876 election by drawing multiple boots kicking the venerable ballot box.
Instead, on January 18, 1877, after more than a month of often acrimonious discussion, the House and Senate proposed a joint electoral commission to decide who had won the election. The majority party in the Senate, the Republicans, and the majority party in the House, the Democrats, each selected three representatives to the commission, while the minority parties each selected two, resulting in a five-to-five split. A final five members would come from the Supreme Court, two Republicans and two Democrats, with the fifth, meant to be neutral, chosen by the other four. Justice David Davis, who had been Lincoln’s campaign manager in 1860 but was now a Democrat, was the initial selection. But Davis, who had been leaning toward Tilden, was elected by the Illinois legislature to the Senate shortly after his selection. As a result, he was replaced by Joseph P. Bradley, seen as the most independent of the remaining justices. Hewitt pronounced the selection of Bradley as “entirely satisfactory.”
The vote for the electoral commission exposed the deep divide among Republicans. In the Senate, Republicans barely backed the commission, 21 to 16. In the House, they opposed the commission, 31 to 69. The Democrats, by contrast, voted for the commission 26 to 1 in the Senate and 160 to 17 in the House.
With deep Republican resistance to the commission, Grant used his powers of persuasion in one-on-one conversations to advocate its implementation. He sent a message to the Senate commending their support “because of my appreciation of the imminent peril to the institutions of the country from which, in my judgment, the act affords a wise and constitutional means of escape.” Grant recognized that “the bill may not be perfect, and its provisions may not be such as would be best applicable in all future occasions, but it is calculated to meet the present condition of the question and of the country.” Increasingly skilled as a practical politician, he understood the anxiety among his own Republican Party and sought to assuage their apprehensions.
The commission began meeting on the last day of January, only five weeks from Inauguration Day. During the month of February, Grant kept a respectful distance from the commission, while regularly conversing with Hayes’s and Tilden’s emissaries. As tensions remained high, Grant became the calm center in the storm of uncertainty.
In the end, the commission awarded Hayes all twenty electoral votes—by a vote of 8 to 7. Justice Bradley became the swing vote. Hayes, while still losing the popular vote, 4,286,808 to 4,034,142, won the electoral vote 185 to 184. In what would come to be called “the Compromise of 1877,” southern Democrats agreed to support Hayes if he agreed to end Reconstruction and support home rule in the South. Grant knew that home rule meant white rule; it would perpetuate the disfranchisement of black voters deep into the twentieth century.
ON FRIDAY, MARCH 2, Grant welcomed Hayes to the White House. He invited Hayes to stay, but Hayes chose to respect the Grants’ final hours as the First Family in the White House and declined the offer, instead taking up residence at Ohio senator John Sherman’s home on K Street.
The next evening, the Grants hosted an elegant dinner in the Blue Room in honor of the Hayeses. During after-dinner conversation, Grant and Hayes slipped away to the Red Room. By statute, Hayes would become president at noon on March 4. But since the second term of President James Monroe in 1821, tradition held that no inaugural ceremony would occur on a Sunday. Therefore, Grant superintended a secret swearing-in ceremony on Saturday evening with Hayes, Chief Justice Morrison Waite, and several witnesses. The swearing-in would be repeated publicly on Monday, March 5. After eight challenging years, Grant was no longer president.
Following the public inauguration on March 5, Julia served a stylish luncheon at the White House. As she prepared to leave her home of nearly a decade, she said to Mrs. Hayes, “I hope you will be as happy here as I have been for the last eight years.”
GRANT LEFT THE White House on a high note. Despite the scandals of his second term, in the bitterly contested centennial election he had conducted himself as a first-class statesman. He had demonstrated his political maturity in his willingness to cooperate with the Tilden campaign and with the Democratic-controlled House for the greater good of the nation. Grant would later observe, “If Tilden was declared elected, I intended to hand him over the reins, and see him peacefully installed. I should have treated him as cordially as I did Hayes, for the question of the presidency was neither personal nor political, but national.”
Grant’s calm skills in mediation reestablished his popularity among many who had been his critics. Whitelaw Reid, editor of the New York Tribune, praised his “public and patriotic service,” telling his readers that Grant’s services “in war and peace” deserved the nation’s “respect and gratitude.” Reid declared that as “unpopular as the later years of his Administration have been, he will…go out of office amid general good will.”
Future president James Garfield, who earlier expressed misgivings about Grant’s presidency, confided to his diary, “I was again impressed with the belief that when his Presidential term is ended, Gen. Grant will regain his place as one of the very foremost of Americans.” Garfield predicted, “His power of staying, his imperturbability, has been of incalculable value to the nation, and will be prized more and more as his career recedes.”
Ohio governor Rutherford B. Hayes, the compromise Republican candidate, won the contested presidential election of 1876 to become Grant’s successor.
GRANT HAD CHANGED physically in these eight years. His weight had increased; his face had become fleshier; his reddish-brown hair now included touches of silver. He wore glasses for reading. He and Julia, both more self-assured in the public world they now inhabited, had become accustomed to comfortable living. Even though weary, with wanderlust in his blood he could hardly wait for the adventure and education of travel that lay ahead.
Grant told Hewitt that “for sixteen years he had consecrated his life to the public service without any interval of rest or any possibility of being free from great responsibility.” The general was ready to turn over the reins of command.
Julia felt more regret. As she walked through the White House for the last time, surveying rooms she had found so shabby eight years ago, she took pride in her restoration and elevation of the large house she had come to love, the sight of countless gala dinners and social receptions she had hosted to help reconcile a divided capital.
In addition—less remembered in history, but no less important for their family—she and Ulysses had experienced the mysterious life cycle of birth, marriage, and death in this fabled manse. Julia Grant would never imagine that little granddaughter Julia would outlive the eighteen presidents who succeeded her grandfather and be invited again and again to visit the White House before dying at age ninety-nine in 1975.
Perhaps with a wry smile, Julia stocked the larder for Mrs. Hayes, arranging her favorite wines in careful places of honor. She knew that Lucy Hayes, passionately involved in the temperance movement, intended to make the White House bone-dry for the next four years.
With a final farewell to family, friends, and servants, the Grants walked down the steps of the North Portico and entered their carriage. As Grant’s four magnificent chestnut horses pranced in anticipation, Ulysses and Julia prepared to enter the next chapter of their life together.
