Strange mingling of mirth and tears, of the tragic and grotesque, of
cap and crown, of Socrates and Rabelais, 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, 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 the
roots of 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 mold--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.
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 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. 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. 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. He 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 words at Gettysburg, and then the speech of Edward
Everett. The oration of Lincoln will never be forgotten. It will live
until languages are dead and lips are dust. The speech 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 pretense 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.
He knew others, because perfectly acquainted with himself. He
cared nothing for place, but everything for principle; nothing
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 defense, 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 upon 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.
[Transcriber's Note: Part of this was omitted in original.]
[28] _By permission of Mr. C. P. Farrell._