Today is the birthday of William H. Seward, one-time governor of New York, United States senator, and Secretary of State under Lincoln, part of Lincoln’s “team of rivals,” who endures in the minds of most Americans, if they remember him at all, for his purchase of Alaska, widely lampooned at the time as “Seward’s folly.”

Seward was more overtly radical than Lincoln, as a senator in the 1840s and ‘50s already outspokenly anti-slavery and pro-Black rights. At a time when it was illegal to harbor escaped slaves in New York, his house was a stop on the Underground Railroad and he was instrumental in setting up Harriet Tubman in a permanent residence down the street.

Lincoln and Seward grew unexpectedly close as they put their heads together and drew on the brain trust of their uneasy cohort, with its varying political perspectives, in order to navigate a civil war and preserve the Union.

There are those who hated what they stood for. Seward was already bedridden, the result of a carriage accident, on the night of Lincoln’s assassination. On April 14, 1865, an assailant entered the Seward home to make a bloody attempt on his life. Many serious injuries resulted, including to members of the Seward family. A son, Frederick, had his skull staved with a pistol. (He was in a coma for two months, but ultimately recovered.) Two other sons, Andrew and William, were stabbed. A daughter, Fanny, was also attacked. Eight people in all were injured in the attempt, part of a broader plot to take out the three senior members of the Executive Branch. (A third conspirator was to have attacked Vice President Andrew Johnson, but lost his nerve.) Seward, who was stabbed five times in the face, neck, and chest, survived, protected in part by a brace he wore as he was convalescing from the carriage accident. Those in the house who escaped physical harm suffered from the shock of the assault. Seward’s wife died of a heart attack not long after, and the family lived with the emotional trauma for many years.

I was at a wedding last summer in Auburn, New York, when I learned that Seward’s house, now a museum, was only a few blocks from where I was staying. Of course, I had to check it out. I had played Seward in a school play when I was in the fourth grade.

Up the side steps I sauntered and opened the door into the reception area, and before my eyes could adjust, I heard, “Aren’t you Ross Amico?” Naturally, I was surprised. Had my early triumph as an actor preceded me?

No, it turns out that one of my listeners in the Princeton area happened to be visiting Auburn and was friends with one of the docents. She had recognized my voice as I entered. Elocution proved mightier than my Seward.