Abraham Lincoln
The grandest figure of the fiercest civil war.

by Robert G. Ingersoll
(1894)

From The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll (Dresden Edition, 1900–1902), Volume 3.
Source: https://thegreatagnostic.com/works/abraham-lincoln/
Public domain. CC0 / Public Domain Mark 1.0.

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ON the 12th of February, 1809, two babes were born—one in the woods of
Kentucky, amid the hardships and poverty of pioneers; one in England,
surrounded by wealth and culture. One was educated in the University of
Nature, the other at Cambridge.

One associated his name with the enfranchisement of labor, with the
emancipation of millions, with the salvation of the Republic. He is
known to us as Abraham Lincoln.

The other broke the chains of superstition and filled the world with
intellectual light, and he is known as Charles Darwin.

Nothing is grander than to break chains from the bodies of men—nothing
nobler than to destroy the phantoms of the soul.

Because of these two men the nineteenth century is illustrious.

A few men and women make a nation glorious—Shakespeare made England
immortal, Voltaire civilized and humanized France; Goethe, Schiller and
Humboldt lifted Germany into the light. Angelo, Raphael, Galileo and
Bruno crowned with fadeless laurel the Italian brow, and now the
most precious treasure of the Great Republic is the memory of Abraham
Lincoln.

Every generation has its heroes, its iconoclasts, its pioneers, its
ideals. The people always have been and still are divided, at least into
classes—the many, who with their backs to the sunrise worship the past,
and the few, who keep their faces toward the dawn—the many, who are
satisfied with the world as it is; the few, who labor and suffer for
the future, for those to be, and who seek to rescue the oppressed, to
destroy the cruel distinctions of caste, and to civilize mankind.

Yet it sometimes happens that the liberator of one age becomes the
oppressor of the next. His reputation becomes so great—he is so revered
and worshiped—that his followers, in his name, attack the hero who
endeavors to take another step in advance.

The heroes of the Revolution, forgetting the justice for which they
fought, put chains upon the limbs of others, and in their names the
lovers of liberty were denounced as ingrates and traitors.

During the Revolution our fathers to justify their rebellion dug down
to the bed-rock of human rights and planted their standard there. They
declared that all men were entitled to liberty and that government
derived its power from the consent of the governed. But when victory
came, the great principles were forgotten and chains were put upon the
limbs of men. Both of the great political parties were controlled
by greed and selfishness. Both were the defenders and protectors of
slavery. For nearly three-quarters of a century these parties had
control of the Republic. The principal object of both parties was the
protection of the infamous institution. Both were eager to secure the
Southern vote and both sacrificed principle and honor upon the altar of
success.

At last the Whig party died and the Republican was born. This party was
opposed to the further extension of slavery. The Democratic party of the
South wished to make the "divine institution" national—while the
Democrats of the North wanted the question decided by each territory for
itself.

Each of these parties had conservatives and extremists. The extremists
of the Democratic party were in the rear and wished to go back; the
extremists of the Republican party were in the front, and wished to go
forward. The extreme Democrat was willing to destroy the Union for the
sake of slavery, and the extreme Republican was willing to destroy the
Union for the sake of liberty.

Neither party could succeed without the votes of its extremists.

This was the condition in 1858-60.

When Lincoln was a child his parents removed from Kentucky to Indiana. A
few trees were felled—a log hut open to the south, no floor, no window,
was built—a little land plowed and here the Lincolns lived. Here the
patient, thoughtful, silent, loving mother died—died in the wide forest
as a leaf dies, leaving nothing to her son but the memory of her love.

In a few years the family moved to Illinois. Lincoln then almost grown,
clad in skins, with no woven stitch upon his body—walking and driving
the cattle. Another farm was opened—a few acres subdued and enough
raised to keep the wolf from the door. Lincoln quit the farm—went down
the Ohio and Mississippi as a hand on a flat-boat—afterward clerked
in a country store—then in partnership with another bought the
store—failed. Nothing left but a few debts—learned the art of
surveying—made about half a living and paid something on the
debts—read law—admitted to the bar—tried a few small cases—nominated
for the Legislature and made a speech.

This speech was in favor of a tariff, not only for revenue, but to
encourage American manufacturers and to protect American workingmen.
Lincoln knew then as well as we do now, that everything, to the limits
of the possible, that Americans use should be produced by the energy,
skill and ingenuity of Americans. He knew that the more industries we
had, the greater variety of things we made, the greater would be the
development of the American brain. And he knew that great men and great
women are the best things that a nation can produce,—the finest crop a
country can possibly raise.

He knew that a nation that sells raw material will grow ignorant and
poor, while the people who manufacture will grow intelligent and rich.
To dig, to chop, to plow, requires more muscle than mind, more strength
than thought.

To invent, to manufacture, to take advantage of the forces of
nature—this requires thought, talent, genius. This develops the brain
and gives wings to the imagination.

It is better for Americans to purchase from Americans, even if the
things purchased cost more.

If we purchase a ton of steel rails from England for twenty dollars,
then we have the rails and England the money; But if we buy a ton of
steel rails from an American for twenty-five dollars, then America has
both the rails and the money.

Judging from the present universal depression and the recent elections,
Lincoln, in his first speech, stood on solid rock and was absolutely
right. Lincoln was educated in the University of Nature—educated by
cloud and star—by field and winding stream—by billowed plains and
solemn forests—by morning's birth and death of day—by storm and
night—by the ever eager Spring—by Summer's wealth of leaf and vine and
flower—the sad and transient glories of the Autumn woods—and Winter,
builder of home and fireside, and whose storms without, create the
social warmth within.

He was perfectly acquainted with the political questions of the
day—heard them discussed at taverns and country stores, at voting
places and courts and on the stump. He knew all the arguments for and
against, and no man of his time was better equipped for intellectual
conflict. He knew the average mind—the thoughts of the people, the
hopes and prejudices of his fellow-men. He had the power of accurate
statement. He was logical, candid and sincere. In addition, he had the
"touch of nature that makes the whole world kin."

In 1858 he was a candidate for the Senate against Stephen A. Douglas.

The extreme Democrats would not vote for Douglas, but the extreme
Republicans did vote for Lincoln. Lincoln occupied the middle ground,
and was the compromise candidate of his own party. He had lived for
many years in the intellectual territory of compromise—in a part of
our country settled by Northern and Southern men—where Northern and
Southern ideas met, and the ideas of the two sections were brought
together and compared.

The sympathies of Lincoln, his ties of kindred, were with the South. His
convictions, his sense of justice, and his ideals, were with the North.
He knew the horrors of slavery, and he felt the unspeakable ecstasies
and glories of freedom. He had the kindness, the gentleness, of true
greatness, and he could not have been a master; he had the manhood and
independence of true greatness, and he could not have been a slave.
He was just, and was incapable of putting a burden upon others that he
himself would not willingly bear.

He was merciful and profound, and it was not necessary for him to read
the history of the world to know that liberty and slavery could not live
in the same nation, or in the same brain. Lincoln was a statesman..
And there is this difference between a politician and a statesman.
A politician schemes and works in every way to make the people do
something for him. A statesman wishes to do something for the people.
With him place and power are means to an end, and the end is the good of
his country.

In this campaign Lincoln demonstrated three things—first, that he was
the intellectual superior of his opponent; second, that he was right;
and third, that a majority of the voters of Illinois were on his side.

II.

IN 1860 the Republic reached a crisis. The conflict between liberty and
slavery could no longer be delayed. For three-quarters of a century the
forces had been gathering for the battle.

After the Revolution, principle was sacrificed for the sake of gain. The
Constitution contradicted the Declaration. Liberty as a principle was
held in contempt. Slavery took possession of the Government. Slavery
made the laws, corrupted courts, dominated Presidents and demoralized
the people.

I do not hold the South responsible for slavery any more than I do the
North. The fact is, that individuals and nations act as they must. There
is no chance. Back of every event—of every hope, prejudice, fancy and
dream—of every opinion and belief—of every vice and virtue—of every
smile and curse, is the efficient cause. The present moment is the
child, and the necessary child, of all the past.

Northern politicians wanted office, and so they defended slavery;
Northern merchants wanted to sell their goods to the South, and so they
were the enemies of freedom. The preacher wished to please the people
who paid his salary, and so he denounced the slave for not being
satisfied with the position in which the good God had placed him.

The respectable, the rich, the prosperous, the holders of and the
seekers for office, held liberty in contempt. They regarded the
Constitution as far more sacred than the rights of men. Candidates
for the presidency were applauded because they had tried to make slave
States of free territory, and the highest court solemnly and ignorantly
decided that colored men and women had no rights. Men who insisted
that freedom was better than slavery, and that mothers should not be
robbed of their babes, were hated, despised and mobbed. Mr. Douglas
voiced the feelings of millions when he declared that he did not care
whether slavery was voted up or down. Upon this question the people,
a majority of them, were almost savages. Honor, manhood, conscience,
principle—all sacrificed for the sake of gain or office.

From the heights of philosophy—standing above the contending hosts,
above the prejudices, the sentimentalities of the day—Lincoln was great
enough and brave enough and wise enough to utter these prophetic words:

"A house divided against itself cannot stand. I believe this Government
cannot permanently endure half slave and half free. I do not expect
the Union to be dissolved; I do not expect the house to fall; but I do
expect it will cease to be divided. It will become all the one thing
or the other. Either the opponents of slavery will arrest the further
spread of it, and place it where the public mind shall rest in the
belief that it is in the course of ultimate extinction, or its advocates
will push it further until it becomes alike lawful in all the States,
old as well as new, North as well as South."

This declaration was the standard around which gathered the grandest
political party the world has ever seen, and this declaration made
Lincoln the leader of that vast host.

In this, the first great crisis, Lincoln uttered the victorious truth
that made him the foremost man in the Republic.

The Republican party nominated him for the presidency and the people
decided at the polls that a house divided against itself could not
stand, and that slavery had cursed soul and soil enough.

It is not a common thing to elect a really great man to fill the highest
official position. I do not say that the great Presidents have been
chosen by accident. Probably it would be better to say that they were
the favorites of a happy chance.

The average man is afraid of genius. He feels as an awkward man feels
in the presence of a sleight-of-hand performer. He admires and suspects.
Genius appears to carry too much sail—to lack prudence, has too much
courage. The ballast of dullness inspires confidence.

By a happy chance Lincoln was nominated and elected in spite of his
fitness—and the patient, gentle, just and loving man was called upon to
bear as great a burden as man has ever borne.

Iii

THEN came another crisis—the crisis of Secession and Civil war.

Again Lincoln spoke the deepest feeling and the highest thought of the
Nation. In his first message he said:

"The central idea of secession is the essence of anarchy."

He also showed conclusively that the North and South, in spite of
secession, must remain face to face—that physically they could not
separate—that they must have more or less commerce, and that this
commerce must be carried on either between the two sections as friends,
or as aliens.

This situation and its consequences he pointed out to absolute
perfection in these words:

"Can aliens make treaties easier than friends can make laws? Can
treaties be more faithfully enforced between aliens than laws among
friends?"

After having stated fully and fairly the philosophy of the conflict,
after having said enough to satisfy any calm and thoughtful mind, he
addressed himself to the hearts of America. Probably there are few finer
passages in literature than the close of Lincoln's inaugural address:

"I am loth to close. We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be
enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break, our
bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory stretching from every
battlefield and patriotic grave to every loving heart and hearthstone
all over this broad land, will swell the chorus of the Union when again
touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."

These noble, these touching, these pathetic words, were delivered
in the presence of rebellion, in the midst of spies and
conspirators—surrounded by but few friends, most of whom were unknown,
and some of whom were wavering in their fidelity—at a time when
secession was arrogant and organized, when patriotism was silent, and
when, to quote the expressive words of Lincoln himself, "Sinners were
calling the righteous to repentance."

When Lincoln became President, he was held in contempt by the
South—underrated by the North and East—not appreciated even by his
cabinet—and yet he was not only one of the wisest, but one of the
shrewdest of mankind. Knowing that he had the right to enforce the
laws of the Union in all parts of the United States, and
Territories—knowing, as he did, that the secessionists were in the
wrong, he also knew that they had sympathizers not only in the North,
but in other lands.

Consequently, he felt that it was of the utmost importance that the
South should fire the first shot, should do some act that would solidify
the North, and gain for us the justification of the civilized world.

He proposed to give food to the soldiers at Sumter. He asked the advice
of all his cabinet on this question, and all, with the exception of
Montgomery Blair, answered in the negative, giving their reasons in
writing. In spite of this, Lincoln took his own course—endeavored to
send the supplies, and while thus engaged, doing his simple duty, the
South commenced actual hostilities and fired on the fort. The course
pursued by Lincoln was absolutely right, and the act of the South to
a great extent solidified the North, and gained for the Republic the
justification of a great number of people in other lands.

At that time Lincoln appreciated the scope and consequences of the
impending conflict. Above all other thoughts in his mind was this:

"This conflict will settle the question, at least for centuries to
come, whether man is capable of governing himself, and consequently is
of greater importance to the free than to the enslaved."

He knew what depended on the issue and he said: "We shall nobly save, or
meanly lose, the last, best hope of earth."

HEN came a crisis in the North. It became clearer and clearer to
Lincoln's mind, day by day, that the Rebellion was slavery, and that it
was necessary to keep the border States on the side of the Union. For
this purpose he proposed a scheme of emancipation and colonization—a
scheme by which the owners of slaves should be paid the full value of
what they called their "property."

He knew that if the border States agreed to gradual emancipation, and
received compensation for their slaves, they would be forever lost to
the Confederacy, whether secession succeeded or not. It was objected at
the time, by some, that the scheme was far too expensive; but Lincoln,
wiser than his advisers—far wiser than his enemies—demonstrated that
from an economical point of view, his course was best.

IV.

He proposed that $400 be paid for slaves, including men, women and
children. This was a large price, and yet he showed how much cheaper it
was to purchase than to carry on the war.

At that time, at the price mentioned, there were about $750,000 worth
of slaves in Delaware. The cost of carrying on the war was at least two
millions of dollars a day, and for one-third of one day's expenses, all
the slaves in Delaware could be purchased. He also showed that all the
slaves in Delaware, Maryland, Kentucky and Missouri could be bought,
at the same price, for less than the expense of carrying on the war for
eighty-seven days.

This was the wisest thing that could have been proposed, and yet such
was the madness of the South, such the indignation of the North, that
the advice was unheeded.

Again, in July, 1862, he urged on the Representatives of the
border States a scheme of gradual compensated emancipation; but the
Representatives were too deaf to hear, too blind to see.

Lincoln always hated slavery, and yet he felt the obligations and duties
of his position. In his first message he assured the South that the
laws, including the most odious of all—the law for the return of
fugitive slaves—would be enforced. The South would not hear. Afterward
he proposed to purchase the slaves of the border States, but the
proposition was hardly discussed—hardly heard. Events came thick and
fast; theories gave way to facts, and everything was left to force.

The extreme Democrat of the North was fearful that slavery might be
destroyed, that the Constitution might be broken, and that Lincoln,
after all, could not be trusted; and at the same time the radical
Republican feared that Lincoln loved the Union more than he did liberty.

The fact is, that he tried to discharge the obligations of his great
office, knowing from the first that slavery must perish. The course
pursued by Lincoln was so gentle, so kind and persistent, so wise and
logical, that millions of Northern Democrats sprang to the defence, not
only of the Union, but of his administration. Lincoln refused to be led
or hurried by Fremont or Hunter, by Greeley or Sumner. From first to
last he was the real leader, and he kept step with events.

V.

ON the 22d of July, 1862, Lincoln sent word to the members of his
cabinet that he wished to see them. It so happened that Secretary Chase
was the first to arrive. He found Lincoln reading a book. Looking up
from the page, the President said: "Chase, did you ever read this book?"
"What book is it?" asked Chase. "Artemus Ward," replied Lincoln. "Let me
read you this chapter, entitled 'Wax Wurx in Albany.'" And so he began
reading while the other members of the cabinet one by one came in. At
last Stanton told Mr. Lincoln that he was in a great hurry, and if any
business was to be done he would like to do it at once. Whereupon Mr.
Lincoln laid down the open book, opened a drawer, took out a paper and
said: "Gentlemen, I have called you together to notify you what I have
determined to do. I want no advice. Nothing can change my mind."

He then read the Proclamation of Emancipation. Chase thought there ought
to be something about God at the close, to which Lincoln replied: "Put
it in, it won't hurt it." It was also agreed that the President would
wait for a victory in the field before giving the Proclamation to the
world.

The meeting was over, the members went their way. Mr. Chase was the
last to go, and as he went through the door looked back and saw that Mr.
Lincoln had taken up the book and was again engrossed in the _Wax Wurx
at Albany._

This was on the 22d of July, 1862. On the 22d of August of the same
year—after Lincoln wrote his celebrated letter to Horace Greeley, in
which he stated that his object was to save the Union; _that he would
save it with slavery if he could_; that if it was necessary to destroy
slavery in order to save the Union, he would; in other words, he would
do what was necessary to save the Union.

This letter disheartened, to a great degree, thousands and millions of
the friends of freedom. They felt that Mr. Lincoln had not attained
the moral height upon which they supposed he stood. And yet, when this
letter was written, the Emancipation Proclamation was in his hands, and
had been for thirty days, waiting only an opportunity to give it to the
world.

Some two weeks after the letter to Greeley, Lincoln was waited on by a
committee of clergymen, and was by them informed that it was God's will
that he should issue a Proclamation of Emancipation. He replied to them,
in substance, that the day of miracles had passed. He also mildly and
kindly suggested that if it were God's will this Proclamation should
be issued, certainly God would have made known that will to him—to the
person whose duty it was to issue it.

On the 22d day of September, 1862, the most glorious date in the history
of the Republic, the Proclamation of Emancipation was issued.

Lincoln had reached the generalization of all argument upon the question
of slavery and freedom—a generalization that never has been, and
probably never will be, excelled:

"In giving freedom to the slave, we assure freedom to the free."

This is absolutely true. Liberty can be retained, can be enjoyed, only
by giving it to others. The spendthrift saves, the miser is prodigal.
In the realm of Freedom, waste is husbandry. He who puts chains upon the
body of another shackles his own soul. The moment the Proclamation was
issued the cause of the Republic became sacred. From that moment the
North fought for the human race.

From that moment the North stood under the blue and stars, the flag of
Nature, sublime and free.

In 1831, Lincoln went down the Mississippi on a flat-boat. He received
the extravagant salary of ten dollars a month. When he reached New
Orleans, he and some of his companions went about the city.

Among other places, they visited a slave market, where men and women
were being sold at auction. A young colored girl was on the block.
Lincoln heard the brutal words of the auctioneer—the savage remarks of
bidders. The scene filled his soul with indignation and horror.

Turning to his companions, he said, "Boys, if I ever get a chance to hit
slavery, by God I'll hit it hard!"

The helpless girl, unconsciously, had planted in a great heart the seeds
of the Proclamation.

Thirty-one years afterward the chance came, the oath was kept, and
to four millions of slaves, of men, women and children, was restored
liberty, the jewel of the soul.

In the history, in the fiction of the world, there is nothing more
intensely dramatic than this.

Lincoln held within his brain the grandest truths, and he held them as
unconsciously, as easily, as naturally, as a waveless pool holds within
its stainless breast a thousand stars.

In these two years we had traveled from the Ordinance of Secession to
the Proclamation of Emancipation.

VI.

WE were surrounded by enemies. Many of the so-called great in Europe
and England were against us. They hated the Republic, despised our
institutions, and sought in many ways to aid the South.

Mr. Gladstone announced that Jefferson Davis had made a nation, and
that he did not believe the restoration of the American Union by force
attainable.

From the Vatican came words of encouragement for the South.

It was declared that the North was fighting for empire and the South for
independence.

The Marquis of Salisbury said: "The people of the South are the natural
allies of England. The North keeps an opposition shop in the same
department of trade as ourselves."

Not a very elevated sentiment—but English.

Some of their statesmen declared that the subjugation of the South by
the North would be a calamity to the world.

Louis Napoleon was another enemy, and he endeavored to establish a
monarchy in Mexico, to the end that the great North might be destroyed.
But the patience, the uncommon common sense, the statesmanship of
Lincoln—in spite of foreign hate and Northern division—triumphed over
all. And now we forgive all foes. Victory makes forgiveness easy.

Lincoln was by nature a diplomat. He knew the art of sailing against
the wind. He had as much shrewdness as is consistent with honesty. He
understood, not only the rights of individuals, but of nations. In
all his correspondence with other governments he neither wrote nor
sanctioned a line which afterward was used to tie his hands. In the use
of perfect English he easily rose above all his advisers and all his
fellows.

No one claims that Lincoln did all. He could have done nothing without
the generals in the field, and the generals could have done nothing
without their armies. The praise is due to all—to the private as much
as to the officer; to the lowest who did his duty, as much as to the
highest.

My heart goes out to the brave private as much as to the leader of the
host.

But Lincoln stood at the centre and with infinite patience, with
consummate skill, with the genius of goodness, directed, cheered,
consoled and conquered.

Vii

SLAVERY was the cause of the war, and slavery was the perpetual
stumbling-block. As the war went on, question after question
arose—questions that could not be answered by theories. Should we hand
back the slave to his master, when the master was using his slave to
destroy the Union? If the South was right, slaves were property, and
by the laws of war anything that might be used to the advantage of the
enemy might be confiscated by us. Events did not wait for discussion.
General Butler denominated the negro as "a contraband." Congress
provided that the property of the rebels might be confiscated.

The extreme Democrats of the North regarded the slave as more sacred
than life. It was no harm to kill the master—to burn his house, to
ravage his fields—but you must not free his slave. If in war a
nation has the right to take the property of its citizens—of its
friends—certainly it has the right to take the property of those it has
the right to kill.

Lincoln was wise enough to know that war is governed by the laws of war,
and that during the conflict constitutions are silent. All that he
could do he did in the interests of peace. He offered to execute every
law—including the most infamous of all—to buy the slaves in the border
States—to establish gradual, compensated emancipation; but the South
would not hear. Then he confiscated the property of rebels—treated the
slaves as contraband of war, used them to put down the Rebellion, armed
them and clothed them in the uniform of the Republic—was in favor of
making them citizens and allowing them to stand on an equality with
their white brethren under the flag of the Nation. During these years
Lincoln moved with events, and every step he took has been justified by
the considerate judgment of mankind.

Viii

LINCOLN not only watched the war, but kept his hand on the political
pulse. In 1863 a tide set in against the administration. A Republican
meeting was to be held in Springfield, Illinois, and Lincoln wrote a
letter to be read at this convention. It was in his happiest vein. It
was a perfect defence of his administration, including the Proclamation
of Emancipation. Among other things he said:

"But the proclamation, as law, either is valid or it is not valid. If
it is not valid it needs no retraction, but if it is valid it cannot be
retracted, any more than the dead can be brought to life."

To the Northern Democrats who said they would not fight for negroes,
Lincoln replied:

"Some of them seem willing to fight for you—but no matter."

Of negro soldiers:

"But negroes, like other people, act upon motives. Why should they do
anything for us if we will do nothing for them? If they stake their
lives for us they must be prompted by the strongest motive—even the
promise of freedom. And the promise, being made, must be kept."

There is one line in this letter that will give it immortality:

"The Father of waters again goes unvexed to the sea."

This line is worthy of Shakespeare.

Another:

"Among free men there can be no successful appeal from the ballot to the
bullet."

He draws a comparison between the white men against us and the black men
for us:

"And then there will be some black men who can remember that with silent
tongue and clenched teeth and steady eye and well-poised bayonet they
have helped mankind on to this great consummation; while I fear there
will be some white ones unable to forget that with malignant heart and
deceitful speech they strove to hinder it."

Under the influence of this letter, the love of country, of the Union,
and above all, the love of liberty, took possession of the heroic North.

There was the greatest moral exaltation ever known.

The spirit of liberty took possession of the people. The masses became
sublime.

To fight for yourself is natural—to fight for others is grand; to fight
for your country is noble—to fight for the human race—for the liberty
of hand and brain—is nobler still.

As a matter of fact, the defenders of slavery had sown the seeds of
their own defeat. They dug the pit in which they fell. Clay and Webster
and thousands of others had by their eloquence made the Union almost
sacred. The Union was the very tree of life, the source and stream and
sea of liberty and law.

For the sake of slavery millions stood by the Union, for the sake of
liberty millions knelt at the altar of the Union; and this love of the
Union is what, at last, overwhelmed the Confederate hosts.

It does not seem possible that only a few years ago our Constitution,
our laws, our Courts, the Pulpit and the Press defended and upheld the
institution of slavery—that it was a crime to feed the hungry—to give
water to the lips of thirst—shelter to a woman flying from the whip and
chain!

The old flag still flies—the stars are there—the stains have gone.

IX.

LINCOLN always saw the end. He was unmoved by the storms and currents of
the times. He advanced too rapidly for the conservative politicians, too
slowly for the radical enthusiasts. He occupied the line of safety, and
held by his personality—by the force of his great character, by his
charming candor—the masses on his side.

The soldiers thought of him as a father.

All who had lost their sons in battle felt that they had his
sympathy—felt that his face was as sad as theirs. They knew that
Lincoln was actuated by one motive, and that his energies were bent to
the attainment of one end—the salvation of the Republic.

They knew that he was kind, sincere and merciful. They knew that in his
veins there was no drop of tyrants' blood. They knew that he used his
power to protect the innocent, to save reputation and life—that he had
the brain of a philosopher—the heart of a mother.

During all the years of war, Lincoln stood the embodiment of mercy,
between discipline and death. He pitied the imprisoned and condemned.
He took the unfortunate in his arms, and was the friend even of the
convict. He knew temptation's strength—the weakness of the will—and
how in fury's sudden flame the judgment drops the scales, and
passion—blind and deaf—usurps the throne.

One day a woman, accompanied by a Senator, called on the President. The
woman was the wife of one of Mosby's men. Her husband had been captured,
tried and condemned to be shot. She came to ask for the pardon of her
husband. The President heard her story and then asked what kind of man
her husband was. "Is he intemperate, does he abuse the children and beat
you?" "No, no," said the wife, "he is a good man, a good husband, he
loves me and he loves the children, and we cannot live without him. The
only trouble is that he is a fool about politics—I live in the North,
born there, and if I get him home, he will do no more fighting for the
South." "Well," said Mr. Lincoln, after examining the papers, "I will
pardon your husband and turn him over to you for safe keeping." The poor
woman, overcome with joy, sobbed as though her heart would break.

"My dear woman," said Lincoln, "if I had known how badly it was going to
make you feel, I never would have pardoned him." "You do not understand
me," she cried between her sobs. "You do not understand me." "Yes, yes,
I do," answered the President, "and if you do not go away at once I
shall be crying with you."

On another occasion, a member of Congress, on his way to see Lincoln,
found in one of the anterooms of the White House an old white-haired
man, sobbing—his wrinkled face wet with tears. The old man told him
that for several days he had tried to see the President—that he wanted
a pardon for his son. The Congressman told the old man to come with him
and he would introduce him to Mr. Lincoln. On being introduced, the old
man said: "Mr. Lincoln, my wife sent me to you. We had three boys. They
all joined your army. One of 'em has been killed, one's a fighting now,
and one of 'em, the youngest, has been tried for deserting and he's
going to be shot day after to-morrow. He never deserted. He's wild,
and he may have drunk too much and wandered off, but he never deserted.
'Taint in the blood. He's his mother's favorite, and if he's shot,
I know she'll die." The President, turning to his secretary, said:
"Telegraph General Butler to suspend the execution in the case
of————[giving the name] until further orders from me, and ask him to
answer————."

The Congressman congratulated the old man on his success—but the old
man did not respond. He was not satisfied. "Mr. President," he began,
"I can't take that news home. It won't satisfy his mother. How do I know
but what you'll give further orders to-morrow?" "My good man," said
Mr. Lincoln, "I have to do the best I can. The generals are complaining
because I pardon so many. They say that my mercy destroys discipline.
Now, when you get home you tell his mother what you said to me about my
giving further orders, and then you tell her that I said this: 'If your
son lives until they get further orders from me, that when he does die
people will say that old Methusaleh was a baby compared to him.'"

The pardoning power is the only remnant of absolute sovereignty that a
President has. Through all the years, Lincoln will be known as Lincoln
the loving, Lincoln the merciful.

X.

LINCOLN had the keenest sense of humor, and always saw the laughable
side even of disaster. In his humor there was logic and the best of
sense. No matter how complicated the question, or how embarrassing the
situation, his humor furnished an answer and a door of escape.

Vallandigham was a friend of the South, and did what he could to sow
the seeds of failure. In his opinion everything, except rebellion, was
unconstitutional.

He was arrested, convicted by a court martial, and sentenced to
imprisonment.

There was doubt about the legality of the trial, and thousands in the
North denounced the whole proceeding as tyrannical and infamous. At the
same time millions demanded that Vallandigham should be punished.

Lincoln's humor came to the rescue. He disapproved of the findings of
the court, changed the punishment, and ordered that Mr. Vallandigham
should be sent to his friends in the South.

Those who regarded the act as unconstitutional almost forgave it for the
sake of its humor.

Horace Greeley always had the idea that he was greatly superior to
Lincoln, because he lived in a larger town, and for a long time insisted
that the people of the North and the people of the South desired peace.
He took it upon himself to lecture Lincoln. Lincoln, with that wonderful
sense of humor, united with shrewdness and profound wisdom, told Greeley
that, if the South really wanted peace, he (Lincoln) desired the same
thing, and was doing all he could to bring it about. Greeley insisted
that a commissioner should be appointed, with authority to negotiate
with the representatives of the Confederacy. This was Lincoln's
opportunity. He authorized Greeley to act as such commissioner. The
great editor felt that he was caught. For a time he hesitated, but
finally went, and found that the Southern commissioners were willing
to take into consideration any offers of peace that Lincoln might make,
consistent with the independence of the Confederacy.

The failure of Greeley was humiliating, and the position in which he was
left, absurd.

Again the humor of Lincoln had triumphed.

Lincoln, to satisfy a few fault-finders in the North, went to Grant's
headquarters and met some Confederate commissioners. He urged that
it was hardly proper for him to negotiate with the representatives of
rebels in arms—that if the South wanted peace, all they had to do was
to stop fighting. One of the commissioners cited as a precedent the fact
that Charles the First negotiated with rebels in arms. To which Lincoln
replied that Charles the First lost his head.

The conference came to nothing, as Mr. Lincoln expected.

The commissioners, one of them being Alexander H. Stephens, who, when in
good health, weighed about ninety pounds, dined with the President
and Gen. Grant. After dinner, as they were leaving, Stephens put on an
English ulster, the tails of which reached the ground, while the collar
was somewhat above the wearer's head.

As Stephens went out, Lincoln touched Grant and said: "Grant, look at
Stephens. Did you ever see as little a nubbin with as much shuck?"

Lincoln always tried to do things in the easiest way. He did not waste
his strength. He was not particular about moving along straight lines.
He did not tunnel the mountains. He was willing to go around, and reach
the end desired as a river reaches the sea.

XI.

One of the most wonderful things ever done by Lincoln was the promotion
of General Hooker. After the battle of Fredericksburg, General Burnside
found great fault with Hooker, and wished to have him removed from the
Army of the Potomac. Lincoln disapproved of Burnside's order, and gave
Hooker the command. He then wrote Hooker this memorable letter:

"I have placed you at the head of the Army of the Potomac. Of course I
have done this upon what appears to me to be sufficient reasons, and yet
I think it best for you to know that there are some things in regard to
which I am not quite satisfied with you. I believe you to be a brave and
skillful soldier—which, of course, I like. I also believe you do not
mix politics with your profession—in which you are right. You have
confidence—which is a valuable, if not an indispensable, quality. You
are ambitious, which, within reasonable bounds, does good rather than
harm; but I think that during General Burnside's command of the army
you have taken counsel of your ambition to thwart him as much as you
could—in which you did a great wrong to the country and to a most
meritorious and honorable brother officer. I have heard, in such a way
as to believe it, of your recently saying that both the army and the
Government needed a dictator. Of course it was not for this, but in
spite of it, that I have given you command. Only those generals who
gain successes can set up dictators. What I now ask of you is military
successes, and I will risk the dictatorship. The Government will support
you to the utmost of its ability, which is neither more nor less than
it has done and will do for all commanders. I much fear that the spirit
which you have aided to infuse into the army, of criticising their
commander and withholding confidence in him, will now turn upon you.
I shall assist you, so far as I can, to put it down. Neither you, nor
Napoleon, if he were alive, can get any good out of an army while such
a spirit prevails in it. And now beware of rashness. Beware of
rashness, but with energy and sleepless vigilance go forward and give us
victories."

This letter has, in my judgment, no parallel. The mistaken magnanimity
is almost equal to the prophecy:

"I much fear that the spirit which you have aided to infuse into the
army, of criticising their command and withholding confidence in him,
will now turn upon you."

Chancellorsville was the fulfillment.

Xii

MR. LINCOLN was a statesman. The great stumbling-block—the great
obstruction—in Lincoln's way, and in the way of thousands, was the old
doctrine of States Rights.

This doctrine was first established to protect slavery. It was clung to
to protect the inter-State slave trade. It became sacred in connection
with the Fugitive Slave Law, and it was finally used as the corner-stone
of Secession.

This doctrine was never appealed to in defence of the right—always in
support of the wrong. For many years politicians upon both sides of this
question endeavored to express the exact relations existing between the
Federal Government and the States, and I know of no one who succeeded,
except Lincoln. In his message of 1861, delivered on July the 4th, the
definition is given, and it is perfect:

"Whatever concerns the whole should be confided to the whole—to the
General Government. Whatever concerns only the State should be left
exclusively to the State."

When that definition is realized in practice, this country becomes a
Nation. Then we shall know that the first allegiance of the citizen is
not to his State, but to the Republic, and that the first duty of the
Republic is to protect the citizen, not only when in other lands, but
at home, and that this duty cannot be discharged by delegating it to the
States.

Lincoln believed in the sovereignty of the people—in the supremacy of
the Nation—in the territorial integrity of the Republic.

Xiii

A GREAT actor can be known only when he has assumed the principal
character in a great drama. Possibly the greatest actors have never
appeared, and it may be that the greatest soldiers have lived the lives
of perfect peace. Lincoln assumed the leading part in the greatest drama
ever enacted upon the stage of this continent.

His criticisms of military movements, his correspondence with his
generals and others on the conduct of the war, show that he was at all
times master of the situation—that he was a natural strategist, that he
appreciated the difficulties and advantages of every kind, and that in
"the still and mental" field of war he stood the peer of any man beneath
the flag.

Had McClellan followed his advice, he would have taken Richmond.

Had Hooker acted in accordance with his suggestions, Chancellorsville
would have been a victory for the Nation.

Lincoln's political prophecies were all fulfilled.

We know now that he not only stood at the top, but that he occupied
the centre, from first to last, and that he did this by reason of his
intelligence, his humor, his philosophy, his courage and his patriotism.

In passion's storm he stood, unmoved, patient, just and candid. In his
brain there was no cloud, and in his heart no hate. He longed to save
the South as well as North, to see the Nation one and free.

He lived until the end was known.

He lived until the Confederacy was dead—until Lee surrendered, until
Davis fled, until the doors of Libby Prison were opened, until the
Republic was supreme.

He lived until Lincoln and Liberty were united forever.

He lived to cross the desert—to reach the palms of victory—to hear the
murmured music of the welcome waves.

He lived until all loyal hearts were his—until the history of his
deeds made music in the souls of men—until he knew that on Columbia's
Calendar of worth and fame his name stood first.

He lived until there remained nothing for him to do as great as he had
done.

What he did was worth living for, worth dying for.

He lived until he stood in the midst of universal

Joy, beneath the outstretched wings of Peace—the foremost man in all
the world.

And then the horror came. Night fell on noon. The Savior of the
Republic, the breaker of chains, the liberator of millions, he who had
"assured freedom to the free," was dead.

Upon his brow Fame placed the immortal wreath, and for the first time in
the history of the world a Nation bowed and wept.

The memory of Lincoln is the strongest, tenderest tie that binds all
hearts together now, and holds all States beneath a Nation's flag.

Xiv

ABRAHAM LINCOLN—strange mingling of mirth and tears, of the tragic and
grotesque, of cap and crown, of Socrates and Democritus, of Æsop and
Marcus Aurelius, of all that is gentle and just, humorous and honest,
merciful, wise, laughable, lovable and divine, and all consecrated to
the use of man; while through all, and over all, were an overwhelming
sense of obligation, of chivalric loyalty to truth, and upon all, the
shadow of the tragic end.

Nearly all the great historic characters are impossible monsters,
disproportioned by flattery, or by calumny deformed. We know nothing
of their peculiarities, or nothing but their peculiarities. About these
oaks there clings none of the earth of humanity.

Washington is now only a steel engraving. About the real man who lived
and loved and hated and schemed, we know but little. The glass through
which we look at him is of such high magnifying power that the features
are exceedingly indistinct.

Hundreds of people are now engaged in smoothing out the lines of
Lincoln's face—forcing all features to the common mould—so that he may
be known, not as he really was, but, according to their poor standard,
as he should have been.

Lincoln was not a type. He stands alone—no ancestors, no fellows, and
no successors.

He had the advantage of living in a new country, of social equality, of
personal freedom, of seeing in the horizon of his future the perpetual
star of hope. He preserved his individuality and his self-respect. He
knew and mingled with men of every kind; and, after all, men are the
best books. He became acquainted with the ambitions and hopes of the
heart, the means used to accomplish ends, the springs of action and the
seeds of thought. He was familiar with nature, with actual things, with
common facts. He loved and appreciated the poem of the year, the drama
of the seasons.

In a new country a man must possess at least three virtues—honesty,
courage and generosity. In cultivated society, cultivation is often more
important than soil. A well-executed counterfeit passes more readily
than a blurred genuine. It is necessary only to observe the unwritten
laws of society—to be honest enough to keep out of prison, and generous
enough to subscribe in public—where the subscription can be defended as
an investment.

In a new country, character is essential; in the old, reputation is
sufficient. In the new, they find what a man really is; in the old,
he generally passes for what he resembles. People separated only by
distance are much nearer together, than those divided by the walls of
caste.

It is no advantage to live in a great city, where poverty degrades and
failure brings despair. The fields are lovelier than paved streets, and
the great forests than walls of brick. Oaks and elms are more poetic
than steeples and chimneys.

In the country is the idea of home. There you see the rising and setting
sun; you become acquainted with the stars and clouds. The constellations
are your friends. You hear the rain on the roof and listen to the
rhythmic sighing of the winds. You are thrilled by the resurrection
called Spring, touched and saddened by Autumn—the grace and poetry of
death. Every field is a picture, a landscape; every landscape a poem;
every flower a tender thought, and every forest a fairy-land. In the
country you preserve your identity—your personality. There you are
an aggregation of atoms, but in the city you are only an atom of an
aggregation.

In the country you keep your cheek close to the breast of Nature. You
are calmed and ennobled by the space, the amplitude and scope of earth
and sky—by the constancy of the stars.

Lincoln never finished his education. To the night of his death he was
a pupil, a learner, an inquirer, a seeker after knowledge. You have no
idea how many men are spoiled by what is called education. For the most
part, colleges are places where pebbles are polished and diamonds are
dimmed. If Shakespeare had graduated at Oxford, he might have been a
quibbling attorney, or a hypocritical parson.

Lincoln was a great lawyer. There is nothing shrewder in this world than
intelligent honesty. Perfect candor is sword and shield.

He understood the nature of man. As a lawyer he endeavored to get at the
truth, at the very heart of a case. He was not willing even to deceive
himself. No matter what his interest said, what his passion demanded,
he was great enough to find the truth and strong enough to pronounce
judgment against his own desires.

Lincoln was a many-sided man, acquainted with smiles and tears, complex
in brain, single in heart, direct as light; and his words, candid as
mirrors, gave the perfect image of his thought. He was never afraid
to ask—never too dignified to admit that he did not know. No man had
keener wit, or kinder humor.

It may be that humor is the pilot of reason. People without humor drift
unconsciously into absurdity. Humor sees the other side—stands in the
mind like a spectator, a good-natured critic, and gives its opinion
before judgment is reached. Humor goes with good nature, and good
nature is the climate of reason. In anger, reason abdicates and malice
extinguishes the torch. Such was the humor of Lincoln that he could tell
even unpleasant truths as charmingly as most men can tell the things we
wish to hear.

He was not solemn. Solemnity is a mask worn by ignorance and
hypocrisy—it is the preface, prologue, and index to the cunning or the
stupid.

He was natural in his life and thought—master of the story-teller's
art, in illustration apt, in application perfect, liberal in speech,
shocking Pharisees and prudes, using any word that wit could disinfect.

He was a logician. His logic shed light. In its presence the obscure
became luminous, and the most complex and intricate political and
metaphysical knots seemed to untie themselves. Logic is the necessary
product of intelligence and sincerity. It cannot be learned. It is the
child of a clear head and a good heart.

Lincoln was candid, and with candor often deceived the deceitful. He had
intellect without arrogance, genius without pride, and religion without
cant—that is to say, without bigotry and without deceit.

He was an orator—clear, sincere, natural. He did not pretend. He did
not say what he thought others thought, but what he thought.

If you wish to be sublime you must be natural—you must keep close to
the grass. You must sit by the fireside of the heart; above the clouds
it is too cold. You must be simple in your speech; too much polish
suggests insincerity.

The great orator idealizes the real, transfigures the common, makes even
the inanimate throb and thrill, fills the gallery of the imagination
with statues and pictures perfect in form and color, brings to light
the gold hoarded by memory the miser, shows the glittering coin to the
spendthrift hope, enriches the brain, ennobles the heart, and quickens
the conscience. Between his lips words bud and blossom.

If you wish to know the difference between an orator and an
elocutionist—between what is felt and what is said—between what the
heart and brain can do together and what the brain can do alone—read
Lincoln's wondrous speech at Gettysburg, and then the oration of Edward
Everett.

The speech of Lincoln will never be forgotten. It will live until
languages are dead and lips are dust. The oration of Everett will never
be read.

The elocutionists believe in the virtue of voice, the sublimity of
syntax, the majesty of long sentences, and the genius of gesture.

The orator loves the real, the simple, the natural. He places the
thought above all. He knows that the greatest ideas should be expressed
in the shortest words—that the greatest statues need the least drapery.

Lincoln was an immense personality—firm but not obstinate. Obstinacy
is egotism—firmness, heroism. He influenced others without
effort, unconsciously; and they submitted to him as men submit to
nature—unconsciously. He was severe with himself, and for that reason
lenient with others.

He appeared to apologize for being kinder than his fellows.

He did merciful things as stealthily as others committed crimes.

Almost ashamed of tenderness, he said and did the noblest words and
deeds with that charming confusion, that awkwardness, that is the
perfect grace of modesty.

As a noble man, wishing to pay a small debt to a poor neighbor,
reluctantly offers a hundred-dollar bill and asks for change, fearing
that he may be suspected either of making a display of wealth or
a pretence of payment, so Lincoln hesitated to show his wealth of
goodness, even to the best he knew.

A great man stooping, not wishing to make his fellows feel that they
were small or mean.

By his candor, by his kindness, by his perfect freedom from restraint,
by saying what he thought, and saying it absolutely in his own way, he
made it not only possible, but popular, to be natural. He was the enemy
of mock solemnity, of the stupidly respectable, of the cold and formal.

He wore no official robes either on his body or his soul. He never
pretended to be more or less, or other, or different, from what he
really was.

He had the unconscious naturalness of Nature's self.

He built upon the rock. The foundation was secure and broad. The
structure was a pyramid, narrowing as it rose. Through days and nights
of sorrow, through years of grief and pain, with unswerving purpose,
"with malice towards none, with charity for all," with infinite
patience, with unclouded vision, he hoped and toiled. Stone after stone
was laid, until at last the Proclamation found its place. On that the
Goddess stands.

He knew others, because perfectly acquainted with himself. He cared
nothing for place, but everything for principle; little for money, but
everything for independence. Where no principle was involved, easily
swayed—willing to go slowly, if in the right direction—sometimes
willing to stop; but he would not go back, and he would not go wrong.

He was willing to wait. He knew that the event was not waiting, and that
fate was not the fool of chance. He knew that slavery had defenders, but
no defence, and that they who attack the right must wound themselves.

He was neither tyrant nor slave. He neither knelt nor scorned.

With him, men were neither great nor small—they were right or wrong.

Through manners, clothes, titles, rags and race he saw the real—that
which is. Beyond accident, policy, compromise and war he saw the end.

He was patient as Destiny, whose undecipherable hieroglyphs were so
deeply graven on his sad and tragic face.

Nothing discloses real character like the use of power. It is easy for
the weak to be gentle. Most people can bear adversity. But if you wish
to know what a man really is, give him power. This is the supreme test.
It is the glory of Lincoln that, having almost absolute power, he never
abused it, except on the side of mercy.

Wealth could not purchase, power could not awe, this divine, this loving
man.

He knew no fear except the fear of doing wrong. Hating slavery, pitying
the master—seeking to conquer, not persons, but prejudices—he was the
embodiment of the self-denial, the courage, the hope and the nobility of
a Nation.

He spoke not to inflame, not to upbraid, but to convince.

He raised his hands, not to strike, but in benediction.

He longed to pardon.

He loved to see the pearls of joy on the cheeks of a wife whose husband
he had rescued from death.

Lincoln was the grandest figure of the fiercest civil war. He is the
gentlest memory of our world.
