Part 21

If the President were on earth, he would protest against any monotony of panegyric. He never exaggerated. He was always cautious in praise, as in censure. In endeavor to estimate his character, we shall be nearer him in proportion as we cultivate the same spirit.

In person he was tall and bony, with little resemblance to any historic portrait, unless he might seem in one respect to justify the epithet given to an early English king.[225] As he stood, his form was angular, with something of that straightness in lines so peculiar in the figure of Dante by Flaxman. His countenance had more of rugged strength than his person, and, while in repose, inclined to sadness; yet it lighted easily. Perhaps the quality that struck most at first was his constant simplicity of manner and conversation, without form or ceremony beyond that among neighbors. His handwriting had the same simplicity. It was clear as that of Washington, but less florid. Each had been surveyor, and was perhaps indebted to this experience. But the son of the Western pioneer was more simple in nature, and the man appeared in the autograph. An integrity which has become a proverb belonged to the same quality. The most perfect honesty must be the most perfect simplicity. Words by which an ancient Roman was described picture him,--“_Vita innocentissimus, proposito sanctissimus_.”[226] He was naturally humane, inclined to pardon, and never remembered hard things against himself. He was always good to the poor, and in dealings with them was full of those “kind little words which are of the same blood as great and holy deeds.” On the Saturday before his death I saw him shake hands with more than five thousand soldier patients in the tent-hospitals at City Point, and he told me afterwards that his arm was not tired. Such a character awakened the instinctive sympathy of the people. They saw his fellow-feeling, and felt the kinship. With him as President, the idea of Republican Institutions, where no place is too high for the humblest, was perpetually apparent; so that his simple presence was like a Proclamation of Human Equality.

While social in nature and enjoying the flow of conversation, he was often reticent. Modesty was natural to such a character. Without affectation, so was he without pretension or jealousy. No person, civil or military, complains that he appropriated to himself any honor belonging to another. To each and all he gave the credit that was due. And this same spirit appeared in smaller things. In a sally of Congressional debate, he exclaimed, that a fiery slave-master of Georgia, who had just spoken, was “an eloquent man, and a man of learning, so far as he could judge, not being learned himself.”[227]

His humor, like his integrity, has become a proverb. Sometimes he insisted that he had no invention, but only memory. Good things heard he did not forget, and he was never without a familiar story. When he spoke, the recent West seemed to vie with the ancient East in apologue and fable. His ideas moved, as the beasts entered Noah’s ark, in pairs. His illustrations had a homely felicity, and seemed not less important to him than the argument, which he always enforced with a certain emphasis of manner and voice. This same humor was often displayed where there was no story, and with a point that might recall Franklin. I know not how the indifference to Slavery exhibited by so many could be exposed more effectively than when he said of a political antagonist thus offending, “I suppose the institution of Slavery really looks small to him. He is so put up by nature, that a lash upon his back would hurt him, but a lash upon anybody else’s back does not hurt him.” And then again there is a bit of reply to Mr. Douglas, most characteristic not only for humor, but as showing how little at that time he was looking to the great place he reached so soon afterwards. “Senator Douglas,” said he, “is of world-wide renown. All the anxious politicians of his party, or who have been of his party for years past, have been looking upon him as certainly, at no distant day, to be the President of the United States. They have seen in his round, jolly, fruitful face post-offices, land-offices, marshalships and cabinet appointments, chargéships and foreign missions, bursting and sprouting out in wonderful exuberance, ready to be laid hold of by their greedy hands.… _On the contrary, nobody has ever expected me to be President._ In my poor, lean, lank face nobody has ever seen that any cabbages were sprouting out. These are disadvantages, all taken together, that the Republicans labor under. We have to fight this battle upon principle, and upon principle alone.”[228] Here is a glimpse of himself, as honorable as curious. In a different vein, he said, while President, “The United States Government must not undertake to run the churches.”[229] Here wisdom and humor vie with each other.

He was original in mind as in character. His style was his own, having no model, but springing directly from himself. Failing often in correctness, it is sometimes unique in beauty and sentiment. There are passages which will live always. It is no exaggeration to say, that, in weight and pith, suffused in a certain poetical color, they call to mind Bacon’s Essays. Theirs also was a touching reality and unconscious power, without form or apparent effort. Nothing similar can be found in state-papers. How poor are kings’ speeches and Presidential messages by the side of such utterances, fit harbingers of the sublime era of Humanity!

He was placed by Providence at the head of his country during an unprecedented crisis, when the fountains of the great deep were broken up, and men turned for protection to military power. Multitudinous armies were mustered. Great navies were created. Of all these he was constitutional commander-in-chief. As the war proceeded, prerogatives enlarged and others sprang into being, until the sway of a Republican President became imperatorial, imperial. But not for one moment did the modesty of his nature desert. His constant thought was his country, and how to serve it. He saw the certain greatness of the Republic, and was pleased in looking forward to that early day, when, according to assured calculation, its millions of people will count by the hundred; but this prodigious sway was commended to him only by the good of man. Personal ambition at the expense of patriotism was as far removed from the simple purity of his nature as poison from a strawberry. And thus, with equal courage in the darkest hours, he continued on, heeding as little the warnings of danger as the temptations of power. “It would not do for a President,” he said, “to have guards with drawn sabres at his door, as if he fancied he were, or were trying to be, or were assuming to be, an Emperor.” In the same homeliness he spoke of his morning return to daily duty as “opening shop.” Though commissioning officers in multitudes beyond any other person of authentic history, he never learned the mystery of shoulder-straps or of buttons in the military and naval uniforms, except that he noticed three stars on the shoulders of the Lieutenant-General.

When he became President, he was without any considerable experience in public affairs; nor was he much versed in history, whose lessons would have been valuable. Becoming more familiar with the place, his facility increased. He had “learned the ropes,” so he said. But his habits of business were irregular, and never those of despatch. He did not see at once the just proportions of things, and allowed himself to be occupied by details. Even in small affairs, as well as great, there was in him a certain resistance to be overcome. Moments occurred when this delay excited impatience, and the transcendent question seemed to suffer. But when the blow fell, there was nothing but gratitude, and all confessed the singleness with which he sought the public good. A conviction prevailed, that, though slow to reach his conclusion, he was inflexible in maintaining it. Pompey boasted that by the stamp of his foot he could raise an army. The President did this by a word, and more: according to his own saying, he “put his foot down,” and saved a principle.

This firmness in the right, as he saw it, was an anchor which held always. Emancipation, once adopted, was safe against recall or change. From time to time his determination was repeated in terms which awakened a throb in every liberty-loving bosom,--as when, in the summer before the Presidential election, in his letter “To whom it may concern,” he announced “the abandonment of Slavery” as an essential condition of peace,[230] and thus again proclaimed Emancipation,--or when, on another occasion, he said, in simple words, “And the promise, being made, must be kept,”[231]--and then again exclaimed, loftily, in words good to repeat, “If the people should, by whatever mode or means, make it an Executive duty to reënslave such persons, another, and not I, must be their instrument to perform it.”[232] All this was beautiful and grand. Sodom was burning, but there was no disposition to look back.

In statement of moral truth and exposure of wrong he was at times singularly cogent. There was fire as well as light in his words. Nobody more clearly exhibited Slavery in its enormity. On one occasion, he branded it as a “monstrous injustice”; on another, he pictured the slave-masters as “wringing their bread from the sweat of other men’s faces”; and then, on still another, he said, with fine simplicity of diction, “If Slavery is not wrong, then nothing is wrong.” Would you find condemnation more complete, you must go to John Brown, or to those famous words of John Wesley, where the great Methodist held up Slavery as the “execrable sum of all villanies.” Another mind, more submissive to the truth he recognized, and less disposed to take counsel of to-morrow, would have hesitated less in carrying this judgment forward to its natural conclusion. His courage to apply truth was not always equal to his clearness in seeing it. The heights he gained in conscience were not always sustained in conduct. And have we not been told that the soul can gain heights it cannot keep? Thus, while condemning Slavery, he still waited, till many feared that with him judgment would “lose the name of action.” Even while exalting Human Equality, assailed and derided by one of our ablest debaters, and insisting, with admirable constancy, that all, without distinction of color, are within the birthday promises of the Republic, he yet allowed himself to be pressed by his adversary to an illogical limitation of political rights. But he was willing at all times to learn, and not ashamed to change. Before death he expressed a desire that suffrage should be accorded to colored persons in certain cases; yet here again he failed to apply the great Declaration for which he so often contended. If suffrage be accorded to colored persons only in certain cases, then, of course, it can be accorded to whites only in the same cases,--or Equality ceases.

It was his own frank confession that he had not controlled events, but they had controlled him. At the important stages of the war, he followed rather than led. The people, under God, were masters. Let it not be forgotten that the national triumphs, and even Emancipation itself, sprang from the great heart of the American people. Individual services have been important, but there is no man who was necessary.

On one theme he inclined latterly to guide the public mind: it was the treatment of the Rebel leaders. His policy was never announced, and of course would have been subject to modification always in the light of experience. But it is known that at the moment of his assassination he was occupied by thoughts of lenity and pardon. He was never harsh, even in speaking of Jefferson Davis; and only a few days before his end, when one who was privileged to address him in that way said, “Do not allow him to escape the law, he must be hanged,” the President replied calmly, in the words so beautifully adopted in his last Inaugural Address, “Judge not, that ye be not judged”; and when pressed again by the remark that the sight of Libby Prison made it impossible to pardon him, the President repeated twice over the same words. The question of clemency to our Rebels is the very theme so ably debated between Cæsar and Cato, while the Roman Senate was considering how to treat the confederates of Catiline. Cæsar consented to confiscation and imprisonment, but pleaded for life. Cato was sterner. It is probable that the President, who was a Cato in patriotism, would have followed the counsels of Cæsar.

Good-will to all men was with him a science as well as a sentiment. His nature was pacific, and throughout the terrible conflict his thoughts were always turned on peace. He wished peace among ourselves, and he wished peace with foreign powers. While abounding in gratitude to returned officers and men, who had fought the national battle so well, he longed to see the sword in its scabbard, never again to flash against the sky. His prudence found expression in the saying, “One war at a time”; but his whole nature seemed to say, “Peace always.” And yet it was his fortune to conduct one of the greatest wars in all time. “With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right,”[233]--so he worked and lived; and these words of his own might be his honest epitaph.

* * * * *

His place in history may be seen from the transcendent events with which his name must be forever associated. The pyramids of our country are built by the people more than by any ruler; but the ruler of the people at such a moment cannot be forgotten.

It is impossible to exaggerate the Proclamation of Emancipation as an historic event. Its influence cannot be limited to the present in place or time. It will reach beyond the national jurisdiction, and beyond the present age. Besides its immediate efficacy in liberating slaves at home, it rises already a landmark of Human Progress. From the solidarity of Slavery, the fall of this abomination among us must cause its fall everywhere,--so that in Cuba, Porto Rico, Brazil, or wherever else a slave now wears a chain, that Proclamation will be felt. Proudly will it be recognized always in the destinies of the Republic. Only a short time before, the Czar of Russia, also by proclamation, raised twenty millions of serfs to the dignity of freemen; but even this eminent act was less historic. Though of incalculable importance to the serfs, it was not the triumph of Popular Government, and it came from the East instead of the West. It is to the West that the world now looks for sunrise. “_Video solem orientem in occidente._”[234] But the Emancipation Proclamation itself was an agency in the military overthrow of the Rebellion, which, if regarded as an achievement of war, is one of the greatest in the annals of war, but, if regarded in political consequences, is an epoch of history. Here, again, the magnitude of the event is fully appreciated only when it is considered that the triumph of the Republic is the triumph of Popular Institutions everywhere. It is much that the Republic has become impregnable, whether against “malice domestic” or “foreign levy”; but it is more that it has become an example to the world. That all this should be done under a President representing especially the people, speaking always in sympathy with the people in words of power never to be forgotten, and sealing his devotion with life, adds to the splendor of the example.

His are great heralds, such as few have had as they entered the lofty portals. Our martyred dead is seen also in the company to which he is admitted, among the purest of all time,--martyrs, patriots, philanthropists, servants of truth and duty. Milton, Hampden, Sidney, Wilberforce, all welcome the new-comer. Washington leads the hosts of his own country, from the Pilgrims of the Mayflower to the thronging crowds who have laid down their lives for the Republic.

By the association of a similar death he passes into the same galaxy with Cæsar, William of Orange, and Henry the Fourth of France, all of whom were assassinated,--and his star will not pale by the side of theirs. Cæsar was a contrast in everything, unless in clemency, and the coincidence that each at the time of sacrifice was fifty-six years of age. How unlike in all else! Cæsar was of brilliant lineage, which he traced on one side to the immortal gods, and on the other to a recent chief of Rome,--of completest education,--of amplest means,--of rarest experience,--of acknowledged genius as statesman, soldier, orator, and writer, being in himself the most finished man of Antiquity; but he was the enslaver of his country, whose personal ambition took the place of patriotism, and whose name has become the synonym of imperial power. Of princely birth and great riches, William of Orange began as page in the household of Charles the Fifth, on whose wide-spread dominions, the largest of modern history, the sun never set. The youthful page became companion and intimate of the powerful Emperor. Unawed and unseduced, he upheld the liberties of his country, which he conducted wisely, surely, grandly,--anticipating the example of Washington. His name of “Silent” suggests the reticence of his American parallel, like whom he was also a liberator. Henry the Fourth, of the House of Bourbon, was a king memorable for practical sense, anecdote, and pregnant wit, with a certain Gallic salt. He, too, knew the trials of civil war, which he closed in peace and crowned with mercy. The National Unity prevailed in him. The age of fifty-six witnessed also his death, leaving great plans unfulfilled, and his career emblazoned by the popular epic of his country, “La Henriade” of Voltaire. These are illustrious names; but there is nothing in them to eclipse the simple life of our President, whose example, commemorated by history and by song, will be the pride of humanity and a rebuke to every usurper. The cause he served was more than empire. The motive of his conduct was higher than success,--as devotion to Human Rights is higher than genius or power, as man is higher than aught else on earth.

More like him in certain aspects was the Roman Emperor Vespasian, whose just sway was prolonged in Titus, his son. Without ancestry or rank, he rose to the loftiest power, and, when on these heights, never dissembled the humility of his origin. The simplicity and frugality of early life were continued on the throne of the world. There was in the Emperor a kindred humanity, and the same fondness for story and jest. But the common feature, bringing the two into one historic family, was generous indulgence to political opponents. It belongs to the fame of our President that in selections for the public service he forgot all personal differences. Capacity and devotion to the country were controlling recommendations, before which every thought of opposition or rivalry, or even of injury, disappeared. Here the Roman Emperor anticipated the American President; for the contemporary historian, in his brief record, presents him as “very little mindful of affronts and enmities, or vindictive on their account.”[235] Such a character, whether at Rome or Washington, is an example for all.

There is another character, taken away close upon the age of fifty-six,[236] who seems to have revived in the President. Do not be astonished, when I mention St. Louis of France. Difference of epoch and of objects occupying attention cannot obscure certain kindred features, and especially the common consecration of their lives. The French monarch, though at the head of a military power, was a lover of peace, and cultivated justice towards his neighbors. Through him a barbarous institution was overthrown, and France advanced in civilization. The Trial by Battle, against which he launched a noble ordinance, was a curse not inferior to our Slavery. In an age of violence he was gentle. In an age of privilege, and wearing a crown, he was moved to the practice of Equality. History recalls with undisguised applause the simple justice he delighted to administer, sitting under an oak in the park of Vincennes. Our President launched his ordinance at a barbarous institution, and advanced his country. He, too, practised Equality. And he, also, had his oak of Vincennes. It was that plain room where he was always so accessible as to make his example difficult for future Presidents. At stated times he was open to all who came with petitions, and they flocked across the continent. The transactions of that simple court of last resort would show how much was done to temper the law, to assuage sorrow, and to care for the widow and orphan; but its only record is in heaven.

* * * * *

Such, fellow-citizens, are the Life and Character of Abraham Lincoln. You have discerned his simple beginnings,--have watched his early struggles,--have gratefully followed his dedication to the truths our fathers declared,--have hailed him twice-elected head of the Republic, through whom it was known in foreign lands,--have recognized him at a period of national peril as representative of the _unfulfilled promises_ made by our fathers, even as Washington was representative of National Independence,--and you have beheld him struck down at the moment of victory, when Rebel Slavery was everywhere succumbing. Reverently we acknowledge the finger of the Almighty, and pray that our great trials may not fail, to the end that the promises of the Fathers may be fulfilled,--those promises, so great and glorious, which make the Declaration a title-deed of mankind.

Traitorous Assassination struck him down. Yet be not vindictive towards the poor atom that held the weapon. Reserve your rage for the responsible power, which, not content with assailing the life of the Republic, outraged all law, human and divine,--organized Barbarism as a principle of conduct,--took the lives of faithful Unionists at home,--prepared robbery and murder on the northern borders,--fired hotels, the home of women and children,--plotted to scatter pestilence and poison,--perpetrated piracy and ship-burning at sea,--starved American citizens in prolonged captivity,--inflicted the slow torture of Andersonville and Libby,--menaced assassination always,--and now, at last, true to itself, has assassinated our President: and this responsible power is none other than Slavery. It is Slavery that has taken the life of our beloved Chief Magistrate; and here is another triumph of its Barbarism. On Slavery let vengeance fall. Spare, if you please, the worm it employs; but do not, I entreat you, yield amnesty to this murderous wickedness. Ravaillac, who took the life of the French Henry, was torn in pieces on the public square before the City Hall by four powerful horses, each fastened to one of his limbs, and rending in opposite directions, until, at last, after fearful struggle, nothing of the wretched assassin remained to the executioner except his bloody shirt, which was at once handed over to be burned. Such be our vengeance; and let Slavery be the victim.

And not only Slavery, which is another name for property in man, but also that other pretension, not less irrational and hateful, that Human Rights can depend on color. This is the bloody shirt of the assassin; let it be handed over to be burned.