Some opulent force of genius, soul, and race,Some deep life-current from far centuriesFlowed to his mind, and lighted his sad eyes,And gave his name, among great names, high place.But these are miracles we may not trace—Nor say why from a source and lineage meanHe rose to grandeur never dreamt or seen,Or told on the long scroll of history's space.The tragic fate of one broad hemisphereFell on stern days to his supreme control,All that the world and liberty held dearPressed like a nightmare on his patient soul.Martyr beloved, on whom, when life was done,Fame looked, and saw another Washington!
Some opulent force of genius, soul, and race,Some deep life-current from far centuriesFlowed to his mind, and lighted his sad eyes,And gave his name, among great names, high place.
But these are miracles we may not trace—Nor say why from a source and lineage meanHe rose to grandeur never dreamt or seen,Or told on the long scroll of history's space.
The tragic fate of one broad hemisphereFell on stern days to his supreme control,All that the world and liberty held dearPressed like a nightmare on his patient soul.Martyr beloved, on whom, when life was done,Fame looked, and saw another Washington!
[19]By permission of the author.
[19]By permission of the author.
BY RICHARD WATSON GILDER
This bronze doth keep the very form and moldOf our great martyr's face. Yes, this is he:That brow all wisdom, all benignity;That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that holdLike some harsh landscape all the summer's gold;That spirit fit for sorrow, as the seaFor storms to beat on; the lone agonyThose silent, patient lips too well foretold.Yes, this is he who ruled a world of menAs might some prophet of the elder day—Brooding above the tempest and the frayWith deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken.A power was his beyond the touch of artOr armed strength—his pure and mighty heart.
This bronze doth keep the very form and moldOf our great martyr's face. Yes, this is he:That brow all wisdom, all benignity;That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that holdLike some harsh landscape all the summer's gold;That spirit fit for sorrow, as the seaFor storms to beat on; the lone agonyThose silent, patient lips too well foretold.Yes, this is he who ruled a world of menAs might some prophet of the elder day—Brooding above the tempest and the frayWith deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken.A power was his beyond the touch of artOr armed strength—his pure and mighty heart.
[20]By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company.
[20]By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company.
To him belongs the credit of having worked his way up from the humblest position an American freeman can occupy to the highest and most powerful, without losing, in the least, the simplicity and sincerity of nature which endeared him alike to the plantation slave and the metropolitan millionaire.
The most malignant party opposition has never been able to call in question the patriotism of his motives, or tarnish with the breath of suspicion the brightness of his spotless fidelity. Ambition did not warp, power corrupt, nor glory dazzle him.
Warren H. Cudworth.
By his steady, enduring confidence in God, and in the complete ultimate success of the cause of God which is the cause of humanity, more than in any other way does he now speak to us, and to the nation he loved and served so well.
P. D. Gurley.
Chieftain, farewell! The nation mourns thee. Mothers shall teach thy name to their lisping children. The youth of our land shall emulate thy virtues. Statesmen shall study thy record, and learn lessons of wisdom. Mute though thy lips be, yet they still speak. Hushed is thy voice, butits echoes of liberty are ringing through the world, and the sons of bondage listen with joy.
Matthew Simpson.
BY GEORGE HENRY BOKER.
Crown we our heroes with a holier wreathThan man e'er wore upon this side of death;Mix with their laurels deathless asphodels,And chime their pæans from the sacred bells!Nor in your prayers forget the martyred Chief,Fallen for the gospel of your own belief,Who, ere he mounted to the people's throne,Asked for your prayers, and joined in them his own.I knew the man. I see him, as he standsWith gifts of mercy in his outstretched hands;A kindly light within his gentle eyes,Sad as the toil in which his heart grew wise;His lips half-parted with the constant smileThat kindled truth, but foiled the deepest guile;His head bent forward, and his willing earDivinely patient right and wrong to hear:Great in his goodness, humble in his state,Firm in his purpose, yet not passionate,He led his people with a tender hand,And won by love a sway beyond command,Summoned by lot to mitigate a timeFrenzied with rage, unscrupulous with crime,He bore his mission with so meek a heartThat Heaven itself took up his people's part;And when he faltered, helped him ere he fell,Eking his efforts out by miracle.No king this man, by grace of God's intent;No, something better, freeman,—President!A nature, modeled on a higher plan,Lord of himself, an inborn gentleman!
Crown we our heroes with a holier wreathThan man e'er wore upon this side of death;Mix with their laurels deathless asphodels,And chime their pæans from the sacred bells!Nor in your prayers forget the martyred Chief,Fallen for the gospel of your own belief,Who, ere he mounted to the people's throne,Asked for your prayers, and joined in them his own.I knew the man. I see him, as he standsWith gifts of mercy in his outstretched hands;A kindly light within his gentle eyes,Sad as the toil in which his heart grew wise;His lips half-parted with the constant smileThat kindled truth, but foiled the deepest guile;His head bent forward, and his willing earDivinely patient right and wrong to hear:Great in his goodness, humble in his state,Firm in his purpose, yet not passionate,He led his people with a tender hand,And won by love a sway beyond command,Summoned by lot to mitigate a timeFrenzied with rage, unscrupulous with crime,He bore his mission with so meek a heartThat Heaven itself took up his people's part;And when he faltered, helped him ere he fell,Eking his efforts out by miracle.No king this man, by grace of God's intent;No, something better, freeman,—President!A nature, modeled on a higher plan,Lord of himself, an inborn gentleman!
JAMES A. GARFIELD
In the great drama of the rebellion there were two acts. The first was the war, with its battles and sieges, its victories and defeats, its sufferings and tears. Just as the curtain was lifting on the second and final act, the restoration of peace and liberty, the evil spirit of the rebellion, in the fury of despair, nerved and directed the hand of an assassin to strike down the chief character in both. It was no one man who killed Abraham Lincoln; it was the embodied spirit of treason and slavery, inspired with fearful and despairing hate, that struck him down in the moment of the nation's supremest joy.
Sir, there are times in the history of men and nations when they stand so near the veil that separates mortals from the immortals, time from eternity, and men from God that they can almost hearthe beatings and pulsations of the heart of the Infinite. Through such a time has this nation passed.
When two hundred and fifty thousand brave spirits passed from the field of honor, through that thin veil, to the presence of God, and when at last its parting folds admitted the martyr President to the company of those dead heroes of the Republic, the nation stood so near the veil that the whispers of God were heard by the children of men. Awe-stricken by his voice, the American people knelt in tearful reverence and made a solemn covenant with him and with each other that this nation should be saved from its enemies, that all its glories should be restored, and, on the ruins of slavery and treason, the temples of freedom and justice should be built, and should survive forever.
It remains for us, consecrated by that great event and under a covenant with God, to keep that faith, to go forward in the great work until it shall be completed. Following the lead of that great man, and obeying the high behests of God, let us remember that:
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat;Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet!Our God is marching on.
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat;Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet!Our God is marching on.
BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
Not as when some great captain fallsIn battle, where his country calls,Beyond the struggling linesThat push his dread designsTo doom, by some stray ball struck dead:Or in the last charge, at the headOf his determined men,Who must be victors then!Nor as when sink the civic great,The safer pillars of the State,Whose calm, mature, wise wordsSuppress the need of swords!—With no such tears as e'er were shedAbove the noblest of our deadDo we to-day deploreThe man that is no more!Our sorrow hath a wider scope,Too strange for fear, too vast for hope,—A wonder, blind and dumb,That waits—what is to come!Not more astonished had we beenIf madness, that dark night, unseen,Had in our chambers crept,And murdered while we slept!We woke to find a mourning earth—Our Lares shivered on the hearth,—To roof-tree fallen,—allThat could affright, appall!Such thunderbolts, in other lands,Have smitten the rod from royal hands,But spared, with us, till now,Each laurelled Cæsar's brow!No Cæsar he, whom we lament,A man without a precedent,Sent it would seem, to doHis work—and perish too!Not by the weary cares of state,The endless tasks, which will not wait,Which, often done in vain,Must yet be done again:Not in the dark, wild tide of war,Which rose so high, and rolled so far,Sweeping from sea to seaIn awful anarchy:—Four fateful years of mortal strife,Which slowly drained the nation's life,(Yet, for each drop that ranThere sprang an armed man!)Not then;—but when by measures meet,—By victory, and by defeat,—By courage, patience, skill,The people's fixed "We will!"Had pierced, had crushed rebellion dead,—Without a hand, without a head:—At last, when all was well,He fell—O, how he fell!The time,—the place,—the stealing shape,—The coward shot,—the swift escape,—The wife,—the widow's scream,—It is a hideous dream!A dream?—what means this pageant, then?These multitudes of solemn men,Who speak not when they meet,But throng the silent street?The flags half-mast, that late so highFlaunted at each new victory?(The stars no brightness shed,But bloody looks the red!)The black festoons that stretch for miles,And turn the streets to funeral aisles?(No house too poor to showThe nation's badge of woe!)The cannon's sudden, sullen boom,—The bells that toll of death and doom,—The rolling of the drums,—The dreadful car that comes?Cursed be the hand that fired the shot!The frenzied brain that hatched the plot!Thy country's father slainBy thee, thou worse than Cain!Tyrants have fallen by such as thou,And good hath followed—may it now!(God lets bad instrumentsProduce the best events.)But he, the man we mourn to-day,No tyrant was: so mild a swayIn one such weight who boreWas never known before!Cool should be he, of balanced powers.The ruler of a race like ours,Impatient, headstrong, wild,—The man to guide the child!And this he was, who most unfit(So hard the sense of God to hit!)Did seem to fill his place.With such a homely face,—Such rustic manners,—speech uncouth,—(That somehow blundered out the truth!)Untried, untrained to bearThe more than kingly care!Ay! And his genius put to scornThe proudest in the purple born,Whose wisdom never grewTo what, untaught, he knew—The people, of whom he was one.No gentleman like Washington,—(Whose bones, methinks, make room,To have him in their tomb!)A laboring man, with horny hands,Who swung the axe, who tilled his lands,Who shrank from nothing new,But did as poor men do!One of the people! Born to beTheir curious epitome;To share, yet rise aboveTheir shifting hate and love.Common his mind (it seemed so then),His thought the thoughts of other men:Plain were his words, and poor—But now they will endure!No hasty fool, of stubborn will,But prudent, cautious, pliant, still;Who, since his work was good,Would do it, as he could.Doubting, was not ashamed to doubt,And, lacking prescience, went without:Often appeared to halt,And was, of course, at fault:Heard all opinions, nothing loth,And loving both sides, angered both:Was—not like justice, blind,But watchful, clement, kind.No hero, this, of Roman mould;Nor like our stately sires of old:Perhaps he was not great—But he preserved that State!O honest face, which all men knew!O tender heart, but known to few!O wonder of the age,Cut off by tragic rage!Peace! Let the long procession come,For hark!—the mournful, muffled drum—The trumpet's wail afar,—And see! the awful car!Peace! Let the sad procession go,While cannon boom, and bells toll slow:And go, thou sacred car,Bearing our woe afar!Go, darkly borne, from State to State,Whose loyal, sorrowing cities waitTo honor all they canThe dust of that good man!Go, grandly borne, with such a trainAs greatest kings might die to gain:The just, the wise, the braveAttend thee to the grave!And you, the soldiers of our wars,Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars,Salute him once again,Your late commander—slain!Yes, let your tears, indignant, fall,But leave your muskets on the wall:Your country needs you nowBeside the forge, the plough!(When justice shall unsheathe her brand,—If mercy may not stay her hand,Nor would we have it so—She must direct the blow!)And you, amid the master-race,Who seem so strangely out of place,Know ye who cometh? HeWho hath declared ye free!Bow while the body passes—nay,Fall on your knees, and weep, and pray!Weep, weep—I would ye might—Your poor, black faces white!And children, you must come in bands,With garlands in your little hands,Of blue, and white, and red,To strew before the dead!So sweetly, sadly, sternly goesThe fallen to his last repose:Beneath no mighty dome.But in his modest home;The churchyard where his children rest,The quiet spot that suits him best:There shall his grave be made,And there his bones be laid!And there his countrymen shall come,With memory proud, with pity dumb,And strangers far and near,For many and many a year!For many a year, and many an age,While history on her ample pageThe virtues shall enrollOf that paternal soul!
Not as when some great captain fallsIn battle, where his country calls,Beyond the struggling linesThat push his dread designs
To doom, by some stray ball struck dead:Or in the last charge, at the headOf his determined men,Who must be victors then!
Nor as when sink the civic great,The safer pillars of the State,Whose calm, mature, wise wordsSuppress the need of swords!—
With no such tears as e'er were shedAbove the noblest of our deadDo we to-day deploreThe man that is no more!
Our sorrow hath a wider scope,Too strange for fear, too vast for hope,—A wonder, blind and dumb,That waits—what is to come!
Not more astonished had we beenIf madness, that dark night, unseen,Had in our chambers crept,And murdered while we slept!
We woke to find a mourning earth—Our Lares shivered on the hearth,—To roof-tree fallen,—allThat could affright, appall!
Such thunderbolts, in other lands,Have smitten the rod from royal hands,But spared, with us, till now,Each laurelled Cæsar's brow!
No Cæsar he, whom we lament,A man without a precedent,Sent it would seem, to doHis work—and perish too!
Not by the weary cares of state,The endless tasks, which will not wait,Which, often done in vain,Must yet be done again:
Not in the dark, wild tide of war,Which rose so high, and rolled so far,Sweeping from sea to seaIn awful anarchy:—
Four fateful years of mortal strife,Which slowly drained the nation's life,(Yet, for each drop that ranThere sprang an armed man!)
Not then;—but when by measures meet,—By victory, and by defeat,—By courage, patience, skill,The people's fixed "We will!"
Had pierced, had crushed rebellion dead,—Without a hand, without a head:—At last, when all was well,He fell—O, how he fell!
The time,—the place,—the stealing shape,—The coward shot,—the swift escape,—The wife,—the widow's scream,—It is a hideous dream!
A dream?—what means this pageant, then?These multitudes of solemn men,Who speak not when they meet,But throng the silent street?
The flags half-mast, that late so highFlaunted at each new victory?(The stars no brightness shed,But bloody looks the red!)
The black festoons that stretch for miles,And turn the streets to funeral aisles?(No house too poor to showThe nation's badge of woe!)
The cannon's sudden, sullen boom,—The bells that toll of death and doom,—The rolling of the drums,—The dreadful car that comes?
Cursed be the hand that fired the shot!The frenzied brain that hatched the plot!Thy country's father slainBy thee, thou worse than Cain!
Tyrants have fallen by such as thou,And good hath followed—may it now!(God lets bad instrumentsProduce the best events.)
But he, the man we mourn to-day,No tyrant was: so mild a swayIn one such weight who boreWas never known before!
Cool should be he, of balanced powers.The ruler of a race like ours,Impatient, headstrong, wild,—The man to guide the child!
And this he was, who most unfit(So hard the sense of God to hit!)Did seem to fill his place.With such a homely face,—
Such rustic manners,—speech uncouth,—(That somehow blundered out the truth!)Untried, untrained to bearThe more than kingly care!
Ay! And his genius put to scornThe proudest in the purple born,Whose wisdom never grewTo what, untaught, he knew—
The people, of whom he was one.No gentleman like Washington,—(Whose bones, methinks, make room,To have him in their tomb!)
A laboring man, with horny hands,Who swung the axe, who tilled his lands,Who shrank from nothing new,But did as poor men do!
One of the people! Born to beTheir curious epitome;To share, yet rise aboveTheir shifting hate and love.
Common his mind (it seemed so then),His thought the thoughts of other men:Plain were his words, and poor—But now they will endure!
No hasty fool, of stubborn will,But prudent, cautious, pliant, still;Who, since his work was good,Would do it, as he could.
Doubting, was not ashamed to doubt,And, lacking prescience, went without:Often appeared to halt,And was, of course, at fault:
Heard all opinions, nothing loth,And loving both sides, angered both:Was—not like justice, blind,But watchful, clement, kind.
No hero, this, of Roman mould;Nor like our stately sires of old:Perhaps he was not great—But he preserved that State!
O honest face, which all men knew!O tender heart, but known to few!O wonder of the age,Cut off by tragic rage!
Peace! Let the long procession come,For hark!—the mournful, muffled drum—The trumpet's wail afar,—And see! the awful car!
Peace! Let the sad procession go,While cannon boom, and bells toll slow:And go, thou sacred car,Bearing our woe afar!
Go, darkly borne, from State to State,Whose loyal, sorrowing cities waitTo honor all they canThe dust of that good man!
Go, grandly borne, with such a trainAs greatest kings might die to gain:The just, the wise, the braveAttend thee to the grave!
And you, the soldiers of our wars,Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars,Salute him once again,Your late commander—slain!
Yes, let your tears, indignant, fall,But leave your muskets on the wall:Your country needs you nowBeside the forge, the plough!
(When justice shall unsheathe her brand,—If mercy may not stay her hand,Nor would we have it so—She must direct the blow!)
And you, amid the master-race,Who seem so strangely out of place,Know ye who cometh? HeWho hath declared ye free!
Bow while the body passes—nay,Fall on your knees, and weep, and pray!Weep, weep—I would ye might—Your poor, black faces white!
And children, you must come in bands,With garlands in your little hands,Of blue, and white, and red,To strew before the dead!
So sweetly, sadly, sternly goesThe fallen to his last repose:Beneath no mighty dome.But in his modest home;
The churchyard where his children rest,The quiet spot that suits him best:There shall his grave be made,And there his bones be laid!
And there his countrymen shall come,With memory proud, with pity dumb,And strangers far and near,For many and many a year!
For many a year, and many an age,While history on her ample pageThe virtues shall enrollOf that paternal soul!
[21]By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.
[21]By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.
From "The Lives and Deeds of Our Self-made Men"[22]
BY MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
(1889)
On the first of May, 1865, Sir George Grey, in the English House of Commons, moved an address to the Crown, to express the feelings of the House upon the assassination of Mr. Lincoln. In this address he said that he was convinced that Mr. Lincoln "in the hour of victory, and in the triumph of victory, would have shown that wise forbearance, and that generous consideration, which would have added tenfold lustre to the fame that he had already acquired, amidst the varying fortunes of the war."
In seconding the second address, at the same time and place, Mr. Benjamin Disraeli said: "But in the character of the victim, and in the very accessories of his almost latest moments, there is something so homely and so innocent that it takes the subject, as it were, out of the pomp of history, andout of the ceremonial of diplomacy. It touches the heart of nations, and appeals to the domestic sentiments of mankind."
In the House of Lords, Lord John Russell, in moving a similar address, observed: "President Lincoln was a man who, although he had not been distinguished before his election, had from that time displayed a character of so much integrity, sincerity and straightforwardness, and at the same time of so much kindness, that if any one could have been able to alleviate the pain and animosity which have prevailed during the civil war, I believe President Lincoln was the man to have done so." And again, in speaking of the question of amending the Constitution so as to prohibit slavery, he said: "We must all feel that there again the death of President Lincoln deprives the United States of the man who was the leader on this subject."
Mr. John Stuart Mill, the distinguished philosopher, in a letter to an American friend, used far stronger expressions than these guarded phrases of high officials. He termed Mr. Lincoln "the great citizen who had afforded so noble an example of the qualities befitting the first magistrate of a free people, and who, in the most trying circumstances, had gradually won not only the admiration, but almost the personal affection of all who love freedom or appreciate simplicity or uprightness."
Professor Goldwin Smith writing to the London Daily News, began by saying, "It is difficult to measure the calamity which the United States andthe world have sustained by the murder of President Lincoln. The assassin has done his best to strike down mercy and moderation, of both of which this good and noble life was the mainstay."
Senhor Rebello da Silva, a member of the Portuguese Chamber of Peers, in moving a resolution on the death of Mr. Lincoln, thus outlined his character: "He is truly great who rises to the loftiest heights from profound obscurity, relying solely on his own merits as did Napoleon, Washington, Lincoln. For these arose to power and greatness, not through any favor or grace, by a chance cradle, or genealogy, but through the prestige of their own deeds, through the nobility which begins and ends with themselves—the sole offspring of their own works.... Lincoln was of this privileged class; he belonged to this aristocracy. In infancy, his energetic soul was nourished by poverty. In youth, he learned through toil the love of liberty, and respect for the rights of man. Even to the age of twenty-two, educated in adversity, his hands made callous by honorable labor, he rested from the fatigues of the field, spelling out, in the pages of the Bible, in the lessons of the gospel, in the fugitive leaves of the daily journal—which the aurora opens, and the night disperses—the first rudiments of instruction, which his solitary meditations ripened. The chrysalis felt one day the ray of the sun, which called it to life, broke its involucrum, and it launched forth fearlessly from the darkness of its humble cloister into the luminous spaces of its destiny. The farmer, day-laborer,shepherd, like Cincinnatus, left the ploughshare in the half-broken furrow, and, legislator of his own State, and afterwards of the Great Republic, saw himself proclaimed in the tribunal the popular chief of several millions of people, the maintainer of the holy principle inaugurated by Wilberforce."
There are some vague and some only partially correct statements in this diffuse passage; but it shows plainly enough how enthusiastically the Portuguese nobleman had admired the antique simplicity and strength of Mr. Lincoln's character.
Dr. Merle d'Aubigne, the historian of the Reformation, writing to Mr. Fogg, U. S. Minister to Switzerland, said: "While not venturing to compare him to the great sacrifice of Golgotha, which gave liberty to the captives, is it not just, in this hour, to recall the word of an apostle (I John iii, 16): 'Hereby perceive we the love of God, because he laid down his life for us: and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren?' Who can say that the President did not lay down his life by the firmness of his devotion to a great duty? The name of Lincoln will remain one of the greatest that history has to inscribe on its annals.... Among the legacies which Lincoln leaves to us, we shall all regard as the most precious, his spirit of equity, of moderation, and of peace, according to which he will still preside, if I may so speak, over the restoration of your great nation."
The "Democratic Association" of Florence, addressed "to the Free People of the United States," a letter, in which they term Mr. Lincoln "thehonest, the magnanimous citizen, the most worthy chief magistrate of your glorious Federation."
The eminent French liberal, M. Edouard Laboulaye, in a speech showing a remarkably just understanding and extremely broad views with respect to the affairs and the men of the United States, said: "Mr. Lincoln was one of those heroes who are ignorant of themselves; his thoughts will reign after him. The name of Washington has already been pronounced, and I think with reason. Doubtless Mr. Lincoln resembled Franklin more than Washington. By his origin, his arch good nature, his ironical good sense, and his love of anecdotes and jesting, he was of the same blood as the printer of Philadelphia. But it is nevertheless true that in less than a century, America has passed through two crises in which its liberty might have been lost, if it had not had honest men at its head; and that each time it has had the happiness to meet the man best fitted to serve it. If Washington founded the Union, Lincoln has saved it. History will draw together and unite those two names. A single word explains Mr. Lincoln's whole life: it was Duty. Never did he put himself forward; never did he think of himself; never did he seek one of those ingenious combinations which puts the head of a state in bold relief, and enhances his importance at the expense of the country; his only ambition, his only thought was faithfully to fulfil the mission which his fellow-citizens had entrusted to him.... His inaugural address, March 4, 1865, shows us what progress had been made inhis soul. This piece of familiar eloquence is a master-piece; it is the testament of a patriot. I do not believe that any eulogy of the President would equal this page on which he had depicted himself in all his greatness and all his simplicity.... History is too often only a school of immorality. It shows us the victory of force or stratagem much more than the success of justice, moderation, and probity. It is too often only the apotheosis of triumphant selfishness. There are noble and great exceptions; happy those who can increase the number, and thus bequeath a noble and beneficent example to posterity! Mr. Lincoln is among these. He would willingly have repeated, after Franklin, that 'falsehood and artifice are the practice of fools who have not wit enough to be honest.' All his private life, and all his political life, were inspired and directed by this profound faith in the omnipotence of virtue. It is through this, again, that he deserves to be compared with Washington; it is through this that he will remain in history with the most glorious name that can be merited by the head of a free people—a name given him by his cotemporaries, and which will be preserved to him by posterity—that of Honest Abraham Lincoln."
A letter from the well-known French historian, Henri Martin, to the Paris Siècle, contained the following passages: "Lincoln will remain the austere and sacred personification of a great epoch, the most faithful expression of democracy. This simple and upright man, prudent and strong, elevated step by step from the artisan's bench to the command of a great nation, and always without parade and without effort, at the height of his position; executing without precipitation, without flourish, and with invincible good sense, the most colossal acts; giving to the world this decisive example of the civil power in a republic; directing a gigantic war, without free institutions being for an instant compromised or threatened by military usurpation; dying, finally, at the moment when, after conquering, he was intent on pacification, ... this man will stand out, in the traditions of his country and the world, as an incarnation of the people, and of modern democracy itself. The great work of emancipation had to be sealed, therefore, with the blood of the just, even as it was inaugurated with the blood of the just. The tragic history of the abolition of slavery, which opened with the gibbet of John Brown, will close with the assassination of Lincoln.
"And now let him rest by the side of Washington, as the second founder of the great Republic. European democracy is present in spirit at his funeral, as it voted in its heart for his re-election, and applauded the victory in the midst of which he passed away. It will wish with one accord to associate itself with the monument that America will raise to him upon the capitol of prostrate slavery."
The London Globe, in commenting on Mr. Lincoln's assassination, said that he "had come nobly through a great ordeal. He had extorted the admiration even of his opponents, at least on this side of the water. They had come to admire, reluctantly, his firmness, honesty, fairness and sagacity. He tried to do, and had done, what he considered his duty, with magnanimity."
The London Express said, "He had tried to show the world how great, how moderate, and how true he could be, in the moment of his great triumph."
The Liverpool Post said, "If ever there was a man who in trying times avoided offenses, it was Mr. Lincoln. If there ever was a leader in a civil contest who shunned acrimony and eschewed passion, it was he. In a time of much cant and affectation he was simple, unaffected, true, transparent. In a season of many mistakes he was never known to be wrong.... By a happy tact, not often so felicitously blended with pure evidence of soul, Abraham Lincoln knew when to speak, and never spoke too early or too late.... The memory of his statesmanship, translucent in the highest degree, and above the average, and openly faithful, more than almost any of this age has witnessed, to fact and right, will live in the hearts and minds of the whole Anglo-Saxon race, as one of the noblest examples of that race's highest qualities. Add to all this that Abraham Lincoln was the humblest and pleasantest of men, that he had raised himself from nothing, and that to the last no grain of conceit or ostentation was found in him, and there stands before the world a man whose like we shall not soon look upon again."
In the remarks of M. Rouher, the French Minister, in the Legislative Assembly, on submitting to that Assembly the official despatch of the French Foreign Minister of the Chargé at Washington, M. Rouher remarked, of Mr. Lincoln's personal character, that he had exhibited "that calm firmness and indomitable energy which belong to strong minds, and are the necessary conditions of the accomplishment of great duties. In the hour of victory he exhibited generosity, moderation and conciliation."
And in the despatch, which was signed by Mr. Drouyn de L'Huys, were the following expressions: "Abraham Lincoln exhibited, in the exercise of the power placed in his hands, the most substantial qualities. In him, firmness of character was allied to elevation of principle.... In reviewing these last testimonies to his exalted wisdom, as well as the examples of good sense, of courage, and of patriotism, which he has given, history will not hesitate to place him in the rank of citizens who have the most honored their country."
In the Prussian Lower House, Herr Loewes, in speaking of the news of the assassination, said that Mr. Lincoln "performed his duties without pomp or ceremony, and relied on that dignity of his inner self alone, which is far above rank, orders and titles. He was a faithful servant, not less of his own commonwealth than of civilization, freedom and humanity."
[22]By permission of Dana Estes Company.
[22]By permission of Dana Estes Company.
BY BAYARD TAYLOR
After the eyes that looked, the lips that spakeHere, from the shadows of impending death,Those words of solemn breath,What voice may fitly breakThe silence, doubly hallowed, left by him?We can but bow the head, with eyes grown dim,And as a Nation's litany, repeatThe phrase his martyrdom hath made complete,Noble as then, but now more sadly sweet:"Let us, the Living, rather dedicateOurselves to the unfinished work, which theyThus far advanced so nobly on its way,And saved the perilled State!Let us, upon this field where they, the brave,Their last full measure of devotion gave,Highly resolve they have not died in vain!—That, under God, the Nation's later birthOf Freedom, and the people's gainOf their own Sovereignty, shall never waneAnd perish from the circle of the earth!"From such a perfect text, shall Song aspireTo light her faded fire,And into wandering music turnIts virtue, simple, sorrowful, and stern?His voice all elegies anticipated;For, whatsoe'er the strain,We hear that one refrain:"We consecrate ourselves to them, the Consecrated!"
After the eyes that looked, the lips that spakeHere, from the shadows of impending death,Those words of solemn breath,What voice may fitly breakThe silence, doubly hallowed, left by him?We can but bow the head, with eyes grown dim,And as a Nation's litany, repeatThe phrase his martyrdom hath made complete,Noble as then, but now more sadly sweet:"Let us, the Living, rather dedicateOurselves to the unfinished work, which theyThus far advanced so nobly on its way,And saved the perilled State!Let us, upon this field where they, the brave,Their last full measure of devotion gave,Highly resolve they have not died in vain!—That, under God, the Nation's later birthOf Freedom, and the people's gainOf their own Sovereignty, shall never waneAnd perish from the circle of the earth!"From such a perfect text, shall Song aspireTo light her faded fire,And into wandering music turnIts virtue, simple, sorrowful, and stern?His voice all elegies anticipated;For, whatsoe'er the strain,We hear that one refrain:"We consecrate ourselves to them, the Consecrated!"
[Transcriber's Note: Some of the poem omitted in original.]
Thank God for Abraham Lincoln! However lightly the words may sometimes pass your lips, let us speak them now and always of this man sincerely, solemnly, reverently, as so often dying soldiers and bereaved women and little children spoke them. Thank God for Abraham Lincoln—for the Lincoln who died and whose ashes rest at Springfield—for the Lincoln who lives in the hearts of the American people—in their widened sympathies and uplifted ideals. Thank God for the work he did, is doing, and is to do. Thank God for Abraham Lincoln.
James Willis Gleed.
Let us not then try to compare and to measure him with others, and let us not quarrel as to whether he was greater or less than Washington, as to whether either of them set to perform the other's task would have succeeded in it, or, perchance would have failed. Not only is the competition itself an ungracious one, but to make Lincoln a competitor is foolish and useless. He was the most individual man who ever lived; let us be content with this fact. Let us take him simplyas Abraham Lincoln, singular and solitary, as we all see that he was; let us be thankful if we can make a niche big enough for him among the world's heroes, without worrying ourselves about the proportion which it may bear to other niches; and there let him remain forever, lonely, as in his strange lifetime, impressive, mysterious, unmeasured, and unsolved.
John T. Morse, Jr.
Those who are raised high enough to be able to look over the stone walls, those who are intelligent enough to take a broader view of things than that which is bounded by the lines of any one State or section, understand that the unity of the nation is of the first importance, and are prepared to make those sacrifices and concessions, within the bounds of loyalty, which are necessary for its maintenance, and to cherish that temper of fraternal affection which alone can fill the form of national existence with the warm blood of life. The first man after the Civil War, to recognize this great principle and to act upon it was the head of the nation,—that large and generous soul whose worth was not fully felt until he was taken from his people by the stroke of the assassin, in the very hour when his presence was most needed for the completion of the work of reunion.
Henry Van Dyke.
FromMacMillan's Magazine, England
LINCOLN! When men would name a manJust, unperturbed, magnanimous,Tried in the lowest seat of all,Tried in the chief seat of the house—Lincoln! When men would name a manWho wrought the great work of his age,Who fought and fought the noblest fight,And marshalled it from stage to stage,Victorious, out of dusk and dark,And into dawn and on till day,Most humble when the pæans rang,Least rigid when the enemy layProstrated for his feet to tread—This name of Lincoln will they name,A name revered, a name of scorn,Of scorn to sundry, not to fame.Lincoln, the man who freed the slave;Lincoln whom never self enticed;Slain Lincoln, worthy found to dieA soldier of his captain Christ.
LINCOLN! When men would name a manJust, unperturbed, magnanimous,Tried in the lowest seat of all,Tried in the chief seat of the house—
Lincoln! When men would name a manWho wrought the great work of his age,Who fought and fought the noblest fight,And marshalled it from stage to stage,
Victorious, out of dusk and dark,And into dawn and on till day,Most humble when the pæans rang,Least rigid when the enemy lay
Prostrated for his feet to tread—This name of Lincoln will they name,A name revered, a name of scorn,Of scorn to sundry, not to fame.
Lincoln, the man who freed the slave;Lincoln whom never self enticed;Slain Lincoln, worthy found to dieA soldier of his captain Christ.
This man whose homely face you look upon,Was one of Nature's masterful, great men;Born with strong arms, that unfought battles won,Direct of speech, and cunning with the pen.Chosen for large designs, he had the artOf winning with his humor, and he wentStraight to his mark, which was the human heart;Wise, too, for what he could not break he bent.Upon his back a more than Atlas-load,The burden of the Commonwealth, was laid;He stooped, and rose up to it, though the roadShot suddenly downwards, not a whit dismayed.Hold, warriors, councillors, kings! All now give placeTo this dead Benefactor of the race!
This man whose homely face you look upon,Was one of Nature's masterful, great men;Born with strong arms, that unfought battles won,Direct of speech, and cunning with the pen.Chosen for large designs, he had the artOf winning with his humor, and he wentStraight to his mark, which was the human heart;Wise, too, for what he could not break he bent.Upon his back a more than Atlas-load,The burden of the Commonwealth, was laid;He stooped, and rose up to it, though the roadShot suddenly downwards, not a whit dismayed.Hold, warriors, councillors, kings! All now give placeTo this dead Benefactor of the race!
Richard Henry Stoddard.
BY EDNA DEAN PROCTOR
Now must the storied PotomacLaurels for ever divide,Now to the Sangamon famelessGive of its century's pride.Sangamon, stream of the prairies,Placidly westward that flows,Far in whose city of silenceCalm he has sought his repose.Over our Washington's riverSunrise beams rosy and fair,Sunset on Sangamon fairer—Father and martyr lies there.Kings under pyramids slumber,Sealed in the Lybian sands;Princes in gorgeous cathedralsDecked with the spoil of the landsKinglier, princelier sleeps heCouched 'mid the prairies serene,Only the turf and the willowHim and God's heaven between!Temple nor column to cumberVerdure and bloom of the sod—So, in the vale by Beth-peor,Moses was buried of God.Break into blossom, O prairies!Snowy and golden and red;Peers of the Palestine liliesHeap for your glorious dead!Roses as fair as of Sharon,Branches as stately as palm,Odors as rich as the spices—Cassia and aloes and balm—Mary the loved and Salome,All with a gracious accord,Ere the first glow of the morningBrought to the tomb of the LordWind of the West! breathe around himSoft as the saddened air's sighWhen to the summit of PisgahMoses had journeyed to die.Clear as its anthem that floatedWide o'er the Moabite plain,Low with the wail of the peopleBlending its burdened refrain.Rarer, O Wind! and diviner,—Sweet as the breeze that went byWhen, over Olivet's mountain,Jesus was lost in the sky.Not for thy sheaves nor savannasCrown we thee, proud Illinois!Here in his grave is thy grandeur;Born of his sorrow thy joy.Only the tomb by Mount ZionHewn for the Lord do we holdDearer than his in thy prairies,Girdled with harvests of gold.Still for the world, through the agesWreathing with glory his brow,He shall be Liberty's Saviour—Freedom's Jerusalem thou!
Now must the storied PotomacLaurels for ever divide,Now to the Sangamon famelessGive of its century's pride.Sangamon, stream of the prairies,Placidly westward that flows,Far in whose city of silenceCalm he has sought his repose.Over our Washington's riverSunrise beams rosy and fair,Sunset on Sangamon fairer—Father and martyr lies there.
Kings under pyramids slumber,Sealed in the Lybian sands;Princes in gorgeous cathedralsDecked with the spoil of the landsKinglier, princelier sleeps heCouched 'mid the prairies serene,Only the turf and the willowHim and God's heaven between!Temple nor column to cumberVerdure and bloom of the sod—So, in the vale by Beth-peor,Moses was buried of God.
Break into blossom, O prairies!Snowy and golden and red;Peers of the Palestine liliesHeap for your glorious dead!Roses as fair as of Sharon,Branches as stately as palm,Odors as rich as the spices—Cassia and aloes and balm—Mary the loved and Salome,All with a gracious accord,Ere the first glow of the morningBrought to the tomb of the Lord
Wind of the West! breathe around himSoft as the saddened air's sighWhen to the summit of PisgahMoses had journeyed to die.Clear as its anthem that floatedWide o'er the Moabite plain,Low with the wail of the peopleBlending its burdened refrain.Rarer, O Wind! and diviner,—Sweet as the breeze that went byWhen, over Olivet's mountain,Jesus was lost in the sky.
Not for thy sheaves nor savannasCrown we thee, proud Illinois!Here in his grave is thy grandeur;Born of his sorrow thy joy.Only the tomb by Mount ZionHewn for the Lord do we holdDearer than his in thy prairies,Girdled with harvests of gold.Still for the world, through the agesWreathing with glory his brow,He shall be Liberty's Saviour—Freedom's Jerusalem thou!