THE PERFECT TRIBUTE

[Illustration]

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE BY

Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews

1908

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE

On the morning of November 18, 1863, a special train drew out fromWashington, carrying a distinguished company. The presence with themof the Marine Band from the Navy Yard spoke a public occasion to come, and among the travellers there were those who might be gathered onlyfor an occasion of importance. There were judges of the SupremeCourt of the United States; there were heads of departments; thegeneral-in-chief of the army and his staff; members of the cabinet. In their midst, as they stood about the car before settling for thejourney, towered a man sad, preoccupied, unassuming; a man awkward andill-dressed; a man, as he leaned slouchingly against the wall, ofno grace of look or manner, in whose haggard face seemed to be thesuffering of the sins of the world. Abraham Lincoln, President of theUnited States, journeyed with his party to assist at the consecration, the next day, of the national cemetery at Gettysburg. The quietNovember landscape slipped past the rattling train, and thePresident's deep-set eyes stared out at it gravely, a bit listlessly. From time to time he talked with those who were about him; from timeto time there were flashes of that quaint wit which is linked, ashis greatness, with his name, but his mind was to-day dispirited, unhopeful. The weight on his shoulders seemed pressing more heavilythan he had courage to press back against it, the responsibilityof one almost a dictator in a wide, war-torn country came near tocrushing, at times, the mere human soul and body. There was, moreover, a speech to be made to-morrow to thousands who would expect theirPresident to say something to them worth the listening of a peoplewho were making history; something brilliant, eloquent, strong. Themelancholy gaze glittered with a grim smile. He--Abraham Lincoln--thelad bred in a cabin, tutored in rough schools here and there, fightingfor, snatching at crumbs of learning that fell from rich tables, struggling to a hard knowledge which well knew its own limitations--itwas he of whom this was expected. He glanced across the car. EdwardEverett sat there, the orator of the following day, the finishedgentleman, the careful student, the heir of traditions of learningand breeding, of scholarly instincts and resources. The self-madePresident gazed at him wistfully. From him the people might expect andwould get a balanced and polished oration. For that end he had beenborn, and inheritance and opportunity and inclination had workedtogether for that end's perfection. While Lincoln had wrested from ascanty schooling a command of English clear and forcible always, but, he feared, rough-hewn, lacking, he feared, in finish and inbreadth--of what use was it for such a one to try to fashion a speechfit to take a place by the side of Everett's silver sentences? Hesighed. Yet the people had a right to the best he could give, and hewould give them his best; at least he could see to it that the wordswere real and were short; at least he would not, so, exhaust theirpatience. And the work might as well be done now in the leisure of thejourney. He put a hand, big, powerful, labor-knotted, into first onesagging pocket and then another, in search of a pencil, and drew outone broken across the end. He glanced about inquiringly--there wasnothing to write upon. Across the car the Secretary of State had justopened a package of books and their wrapping of brown paper lay onthe floor, torn carelessly in a zigzag. The President stretched a longarm. 

"Mr. Seward, may I have this to do a little writing?" he asked, andthe Secretary protested, insisting on finding better material. 

But Lincoln, with few words, had his way, and soon the untidy stumpof a pencil was at work and the great head, the deep-lined face, bentover Seward's bit of brown paper, the whole man absorbed in his task. 

Earnestly, with that "capacity for taking infinite pains" whichhas been defined as genius, he labored as the hours flew, buildingtogether close-fitted word on word, sentence on sentence. As thesculptor must dream the statue prisoned in the marble, as the artistmust dream the picture to come from the brilliant unmeaning of hispalette, as the musician dreams a song, so he who writes must have avision of his finished work before he touches, to begin it, amedium more elastic, more vivid, more powerful than anyother--words--prismatic bits of humanity, old as the Pharaohs, new asthe Arabs of the street, broken, sparkling, alive, from the age-longlife of the race. Abraham Lincoln, with the clear thought in his mindof what he would say, found the sentences that came to him colorless, wooden. A wonder flashed over him once or twice of Everett's skillwith these symbols which, it seemed to him, were to the Bostonian akey-board facile to make music, to Lincoln tools to do his labor. Heput the idea aside, for it hindered him. As he found the sword fittedto his hand he must fight with it; it might be that he, as well asEverett, could say that which should go straight from him to hispeople, to the nation who struggled at his back towards a goal. Atleast each syllable he said should be chiselled from the rock of hissincerity. So he cut here and there an adjective, here and there aphrase, baring the heart of his thought, leaving no ribbon or flowerof rhetoric to flutter in the eyes of those with whom he would beutterly honest. And when he had done he read the speech and droppedit from his hand to the floor and stared again from the window. It wasthe best he could do, and it was a failure. So, with the pang of theworkman who believes his work done wrong, he lifted and folded thetorn bit of paper and put it in his pocket, and put aside the thoughtof it, as of a bad thing which he might not better, and turned andtalked cheerfully with his friends. 

At eleven o'clock on the morning of the day following, on November 19, 1863, a vast, silent multitude billowed, like waves of the sea, overwhat had been not long before the battle-field of Gettysburg. Therewere wounded soldiers there who had beaten their way four monthsbefore through a singing fire across these quiet fields, who hadseen the men die who were buried here; there were troops, grave andresponsible, who must soon go again into battle; there were the rankand file of an everyday American gathering in surging thousands; andabove them all, on the open-air platform, there were the leaders ofthe land, the pilots who to-day lifted a hand from the wheel of theship of state to salute the memory of those gone down in the storm. Most of the men in that group of honor are now passed over to themajority, but their names are not dead in American history--greatghosts who walk still in the annals of their country, theirflesh-and-blood faces were turned attentively that bright, stillNovember afternoon towards the orator of the day, whose voice held theaudience. 

For two hours Everett spoke and the throng listened untired, fascinated by the dignity of his high-bred look and manner almost asmuch, perhaps, as by the speech which has taken a place in literature. As he had been expected to speak he spoke, of the great battle, ofthe causes of the war, of the results to come after. It was an orationwhich missed no shade of expression, no reach of grasp. Yet therewere those in the multitude, sympathetic to a unit as it was with theNorthern cause, who grew restless when this man who had been crownedwith so thick a laurel wreath by Americans spoke of Americans asrebels, of a cause for which honest Americans were giving their livesas a crime. The days were war days, and men's passions were inflamed, yet there were men who listened to Edward Everett who believed thathis great speech would have been greater unenforced with bitterness. 

As the clear, cultivated voice fell into silence, the mass of peopleburst into a long storm of applause, for they knew that they had heardan oration which was an event. They clapped and cheered him again andagain and again, as good citizens acclaim a man worthy of honorwhom they have delighted to honor. At last, as the ex-Governor ofMassachusetts, the ex-ambassador to England, the ex-Secretary ofState, the ex-Senator of the United States--handsome, distinguished, graceful, sure of voice and of movement--took his seat, a tall, gauntfigure detached itself from the group on the platform and slouchedslowly across the open space and stood facing the audience. A stirand a whisper brushed over the field of humanity, as if a breezehad rippled a monstrous bed of poppies. This was the President. Aquivering silence settled down and every eye was wide to watch thisstrange, disappointing appearance, every ear alert to catch the firstsound of his voice. Suddenly the voice came, in a queer, squeakingfalsetto. The effect on the audience was irrepressible, ghastly. After Everett's deep tones, after the strain of expectancy, thisextraordinary, gaunt apparition, this high, thin sound from the hugebody, were too much for the American crowd's sense of humor, alwaysstronger than its sense of reverence. A suppressed yet unmistakabletitter caught the throng, ran through it, and was gone. Yet no onewho knew the President's face could doubt that he had heard it andhad understood. Calmly enough, after a pause almost too slight to berecognized, he went on, and in a dozen words his tones had gatheredvolume, he had come to his power and dignity. There was no smile nowon any face of those who listened. People stopped breathing rather, as if they feared to miss an inflection. A loose-hung figure, sixfeet four inches high, he towered above them, conscious of andquietly ignoring the bad first impression, unconscious of a charm ofpersonality which reversed that impression within a sentence. Thatthese were his people was his only thought. He had something to say tothem; what did it matter about him or his voice?

"Fourscore and seven years ago, " spoke the President, "our fathersbrought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty anddedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now weare engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or anynation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met ona great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion ofit as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives thatthat nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that weshould do this. 

"But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow, this ground. The brave men, living and dead, whostruggled here, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add orto detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we sayhere, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, theliving, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which theywho fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for usto be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us--that fromthese honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for whichthey here gave the last full measure of devotion--that we here highlyresolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government ofthe people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from theearth. "

There was no sound from the silent, vast assembly. The President'slarge figure stood before them, at first inspired, glorified with thethrill and swing of his words, lapsing slowly in the stillness intolax, ungraceful lines. He stared at them a moment with sad eyes fullof gentleness, of resignation, and in the deep quiet they stared athim. Not a hand was lifted in applause. Slowly the big, awkward manslouched back across the platform and sank into his seat, and yetthere was no sound of approval, of recognition from the audience; onlya long sigh ran like a ripple on an ocean through rank after rank. InLincoln's heart a throb of pain answered it. His speech had been, ashe feared it would be, a failure. As he gazed steadily at these hiscountrymen who would not give him even a little perfunctory applausefor his best effort, he knew that the disappointment of it cut intohis soul. And then he was aware that there was music, the choir wassinging a dirge; his part was done, and his part had failed. 

When the ceremonies were over Everett at once found the President. "Mr. President, " he began, "your speech--" but Lincoln hadinterrupted, flashing a kindly smile down at him, laying a hand on hisshoulder. 

"We'll manage not to talk about my speech, Mr. Everett, " he said. "This isn't the first time I've felt that my dignity ought not topermit me to be a public speaker. "

He went on in a few cordial sentences to pay tribute to the oratorof the occasion. Everett listened thoughtfully and when the chief haddone, "Mr. President, " he said simply, "I should be glad if I couldflatter myself that I came as near the central idea of the occasion intwo hours as you did in two minutes. "

But Lincoln shook his head and laughed and turned to speak to anewcomer with no change of opinion--he was apt to trust his ownjudgments. 

The special train which left Gettysburg immediately after thesolemnities on the battle-field cemetery brought the President's partyinto Washington during the night. There was no rest for the man at thewheel of the nation next day, but rather added work until, at aboutfour in the afternoon, he felt sorely the need of air and went outfrom the White House alone, for a walk. His mind still ran on theevents of the day before--the impressive, quiet multitude, the serenesky of November arched, in the hushed interregnum of the year, betweenthe joy of summer and the war of winter, over those who had gone fromearthly war to heavenly joy. The picture was deeply engraved in hismemory; it haunted him. And with it came a soreness, a discomfort ofmind which had haunted him as well in the hours between--the chagrinof the failure of his speech. During the day he had gently butdecisively put aside all reference to it from those about him; he hadglanced at the head-lines in the newspapers with a sarcastic smile;the Chief Executive must he flattered, of course; newspaper noticesmeant nothing. He knew well that he had made many successful speeches;no man of his shrewdness could be ignorant that again and again hehad carried an audience by storm; yet he had no high idea of his ownspeech-making, and yesterday's affair had shaken his confidence more. He remembered sadly that, even for the President, no hand, no voicehad been lifted in applause. 

"It must have been pretty poor stuff, " he said half aloud; "yet Ithought it was a fair little composition. I meant to do well by them. "

His long strides had carried him into the outskirts of the city, andsuddenly, at a corner, from behind a hedge, a young boy of fifteenyears or so came rushing toward him and tripped and stumbled againsthim, and Lincoln kept him from falling with a quick, vigorous arm. Thelad righted himself and tossed back his thick, light hair and staredhaughtily, and the President, regarding him, saw that his blue eyeswere blind with tears. 

"Do you want all of the public highway? Can't a gentleman from theSouth even walk in the streets without--without--" and the brokensentence ended in a sob. 

The anger and the insolence of the lad were nothing to the man whotowered above him--to that broad mind this was but a child in trouble. "My boy, the fellow that's interfering with your walking is downinside of you, " he said gently, and with that the astonished youngsteropened his wet eyes wide and laughed--a choking, childish laugh thatpulled at the older man's heart-strings. "That's better, sonny, " hesaid, and patted the slim shoulder. "Now tell me what's wrong with theworld. Maybe I might help straighten it. "

"Wrong, wrong!" the child raved; "everything's wrong, " and launchedinto a mad tirade against the government from the President down. 

Lincoln listened patiently, and when the lad paused for breath, "Goahead, " he said good-naturedly. "Every little helps. "

With that the youngster was silent and drew himself up with stiffdignity, offended yet fascinated; unable to tear himself away fromthis strange giant who was so insultingly kind under his abuse, whoyet inspired him with such a sense of trust and of hope. 

"I want a lawyer, " he said impulsively, looking up anxiously into thedeep-lined face inches above him. "I don't know where to find a lawyerin this horrible city, and I must have one--I can't wait--it may betoo late--I want a lawyer _now_" and once more he was in a feverof excitement. 

"What do you want with a lawyer?" Again the calm, friendly tonequieted him. 

"I want him to draw a will. My brother is--" he caught his breath witha gasp in a desperate effort for self-control. "They say he's--dying. "He finished the sentence with a quiver in his voice, and the bravefront and the trembling, childish tone went to the man's heart. "Idon't believe it--he can't be dying, " the boy talked on, gatheringcourage. "But anyway, he wants to make a will, and--and I reckon--itmay be that he--he must. "

"I see, " the other answered gravely, and the young, torn soul feltan unreasoning confidence that he had found a friend. "Where is yourbrother?"

"He's in the prison hospital there--in that big building, " he pointeddown the street. "He's captain in our army--in the Confederate army. He was wounded at Gettysburg. "

"Oh!" The deep-set eyes gazed down at the fresh face, its musclesstraining under grief and responsibility, with the gentlest, mostfatherly pity. "I think I can manage your job, my boy, " he said. "Iused to practise law in a small way myself, and I'll be glad to drawthe will for you. "

The young fellow had whirled him around before he had finished thesentence. "Come, " he said. "Don't waste time talking--why didn'tyou tell me before?" and then he glanced up. He saw the ill-fittingclothes, the crag-like, rough-modelled head, the awkward carriage ofthe man; he was too young to know that what he felt beyond these wasgreatness. There was a tone of patronage in his voice and in thecock of his aristocratic young head as he spoke. "We can pay you, youknow--we're not paupers. " He fixed his eyes on Lincoln's face to watchthe impression as he added, "My brother is Carter Hampton Blair, ofGeorgia. I'm Warrington Blair. The Hampton Court Blairs, you know. "

"Oh!" said the President. 

The lad went on:

"It would have been all right if Nellie hadn't left Washingtonto-day--my sister, Miss Eleanor Hampton Blair. Carter was better thismorning, and so she went with the Senator. She's secretary to SenatorWarrington, you know. He's on the Yankee side"--the tone was full ofcontempt--"but yet he's our cousin, and when he offered Nellie theposition she would take it in spite of Carter and me. We were sopoor"--the lad's pride was off its guard for the moment, melted in thesoothing trust with which this stranger thrilled his soul. It was arelief to him to talk, and the large hand which rested on his shoulderas they walked seemed an assurance that his words were accordedrespect and understanding. "Of course, if Nellie had been here shewould have known how to get a lawyer, but Carter had a bad turn halfan hour ago, and the doctor said he might get better or he might dieany minute, and Carter remembered about the money, and got so excitedthat they said it was hurting him, so I said I'd get a lawyer, and Irushed out, and the first thing I ran against you. I'm afraid I wasn'tvery polite. " The smile on the gaunt face above him was all the answerhe needed. "I'm sorry. I apologize. It certainly was good of you tocome right back with me. " The child's manner was full of the assuredgraciousness of a high-born gentleman; there was a lovable quality inhis very patronage, and the suffering and the sweetness and the pridecombined held Lincoln by his sense of humor as well as by his softheart. "You sha'n't lose anything by it, " the youngster went on. "Wemay be poor, but we have more than plenty to pay you, I'm sure. Nelliehas some jewels, you see--oh, I think several things yet. Is it veryexpensive to draw a will?" he asked wistfully. 

"No, sonny; it's one of the cheapest things a man can do, " was thehurried answer, and the child's tone showed a lighter heart. 

"I'm glad of that, for, of course, Carter wants to leave--to leaveas much as he can. You see, that's what the will is about--Carter isengaged to marry Miss Sally Maxfield, and they would have been marriednow if he hadn't been wounded and taken prisoner. So, of course, likeany gentleman that's engaged, he wants to give her everything that hehas. Hampton Court has to come to me after Carter, but there's somemoney--quite a lot--only we can't get it now. And that ought to goto Carter's wife, which is what she is--just about--and if he doesn'tmake a will it won't. It will come to Nellie and me if--if anythingshould happen to Carter. "

"So you're worrying for fear you'll inherit some money?" Lincoln askedmeditatively. 

"Of course, " the boy threw back impatiently. "Of course, it would be ashame if it came to Nellie and me, for we couldn't ever make her takeit. We don't need it--I can look after Nellie and myself, " he saidproudly, with a quick, tossing motion of his fair head that was likethe motion of a spirited, thoroughbred horse. They had arrived at theprison. "I can get you through all right. They all know me here, " hespoke over his shoulder reassuringly to the President with a friendlyglance. Dashing down the corridors in front, he did not see the guardssalute the tall figure which followed him; too preoccupied to wonderat the ease of their entrance, he flew along through the big building, and behind him in large strides came his friend. 

A young man--almost a boy, too--of twenty-three or twenty-four, his handsome face a white shadow, lay propped against the pillows, watching the door eagerly as they entered. 

"Good boy, Warry, " he greeted the little fellow; "you've got me alawyer, " and the pale features lighted with a smile of such radianceas seemed incongruous in this gruesome place. He held out his hand tothe man who swung toward him, looming mountainous behind his brother'sslight figure. "Thank you for coming, " he said cordially, and in histone was the same air of a _grand seigneur_ as in the lad's. Suddenly a spasm of pain caught him, his head fell into the pillows, his muscles twisted, his arm about the neck of the kneeling boytightened convulsively. Yet while the agony still held him hewas smiling again with gay courage. "It nearly blew me away, " hewhispered, his voice shaking, but his eyes bright with amusement. "We'd better get to work before one of those little breezes carriesme too far. There's pen and ink on the table, Mr. --my brother did nottell me your name. "

"Your brother and I met informally, " the other answered, settingthe materials in order for writing. "He charged into me like a youngsteer, " and the boy, out of his deep trouble, laughed delightedly. "Myname is Lincoln. "

The young officer regarded him. "That's a good name from yourstandpoint--you are, I take it, a Northerner?"

The deep eyes smiled whimsically. "I'm on that side of the fence. Youmay call me a Yankee if you'd like. "

"There's something about you, Mr. Lincoln, " the young Georgiananswered gravely, with a kindly and unconscious condescension, "whichmakes me wish to call you, if I may, a friend. "

He had that happy instinct which shapes a sentence to fall on itssmoothest surface, and the President, in whom the same instinct wasstrong, felt a quick comradeship with this enemy who, about to die, saluted him. He put out his great fist swiftly. "Shake hands, " hesaid. "Friends it is. "

"'Till death us do part, '" said the officer slowly, and smiled, andthen threw back his head with a gesture like the boy's. "We must dothe will, " he said peremptorily. 

"Yes, now we'll fix this will business, Captain Blair, " the big mananswered cheerfully. "When your mind's relieved about your plunder youcan rest easier and get well faster. "

The sweet, brilliant smile of the Southerner shone out, his arm drewthe boy's shoulder closer, and the President, with a pang, knew thathis friend knew that he must die. 

With direct, condensed question and clear answer the simple will wasshortly drawn and the impromptu lawyer rose to take his leave. But thewounded man put out his hand. 

"Don't go yet, " he pleaded, with the imperious, winning accent whichwas characteristic of both brothers. The sudden, radiant smile brokeagain over the face, young, drawn with suffering, prophetic of closedeath. "I like you, " he brought out frankly. "I've never liked astranger as much in such short order before. "

His head, fair as the boy's, lay back on the pillows, locks of hairdamp against the whiteness, the blue eyes shone like jewels from thecolorless face, a weak arm stretched protectingly about the youngbrother who pressed against him. There was so much courage, so muchhelplessness, so much pathos in the picture that the President's greatheart throbbed with a desire to comfort them. 

"I want to talk to you about that man Lincoln, your namesake, " theprisoner's deep, uncertain voice went on, trying pathetically to makeconversation which might interest, might hold his guest. The man whostood hesitating controlled a startled movement. "I'm Southern to thecore of me, and I believe with my soul in the cause I've fought for, the cause I'm--" he stopped, and his hand caressed the boy's shoulder. "But that President of yours is a remarkable man. He's regarded asa red devil by most of us down home, you know, " and he laughed, "but I've admired him all along. He's inspired by principle, not byanimosity, in this fight; he's real and he's powerful and"--he liftedhis head impetuously and his eyes flashed--"and, by Jove, have youread his speech of yesterday in the papers?"

Lincoln gave him an odd look. "No, " he said, "I haven't. "

"Sit down, " Blair commanded. "Don't grudge a few minutes to a man inhard luck. I want to tell you about that speech. You're not so busybut that you ought to know. "

"Well, yes, " said Lincoln, "perhaps I ought. " He took out his watchand made a quick mental calculation. "It's only a question of goingwithout my dinner, and the boy is dying, " he thought. "If I can givehim a little pleasure the dinner is a small matter. " He spoke again. "It's the soldiers who are the busy men, not the lawyers, nowadays, "he said. "I'll be delighted to spend a half hour with you, CaptainBlair, if I won't tire you. "

"That's good of you, " the young officer said, and a king on his thronecould not have been gracious in a more lordly yet unconscious way. "By the way, this great man isn't any relation of yours, is he, Mr. Lincoln?"

"He's a kind of connection--through my grandfather, " Lincolnacknowledged. "But I know just the sort of fellow he is--you can saywhat you want. "

"What I want to say first is this: that he yesterday made one of thegreat speeches of history. "

"What?" demanded Lincoln, staring. 

"I know what I'm talking about. " The young fellow brought his thinfist down on the bedclothes. "My father was a speaker--all my unclesand my grandfather were speakers. I've been brought up on oratory. I've studied and read the best models since I was a lad inknee-breeches. And I know a great speech when I see it. And whenNellie--my sister--brought in the paper this morning and read thatto me I told her at once that not six times since history began has aspeech been made which was its equal. That was before she told me whatthe Senator said. "

"What did the Senator say?" asked the quiet man who listened. 

"It was Senator Warrington, to whom my sister is--is acting assecretary. " The explanation was distasteful, but he went on, carriedpast the jog by the interest of his story. "He was at Gettysburgyesterday, with the President's party. He told my sister that thespeech so went home to the hearts of all those thousands of peoplethat when it was ended it was as if the whole audience held itsbreath--there was not a hand lifted to applaud. One might as wellapplaud the Lord's Prayer--it would have been sacrilege. And theyall felt it--down to the lowest. There was a long minute of reverentsilence, no sound from all that great throng--it seems to me, anenemy, that it was the most perfect tribute that has ever been paid byany people to any orator. "

The boy, lifting his hand from his brother's shoulder to mark theeffect of his brother's words, saw with surprise that in the strangelawyer's eyes were tears. But the wounded man did not notice. 

"It will live, that speech. Fifty years from now American schoolboyswill be learning it as part of their education. It is not merely myopinion, " he went on. "Warrington says the whole country is ringingwith it. And you haven't read it? And your name's Lincoln? Warry, boy, where's the paper Nellie left? I'll read the speech to Mr. Lincolnmyself. "

The boy had sprung to his feet and across the room, and had lifteda folded newspaper from the table. "Let me read it, Carter--it mighttire you. "

The giant figure which had crouched, elbows on knees, in the shadowsby the narrow hospital cot, heaved itself slowly upward till it loomedat its full height in air. Lincoln turned his face toward the boystanding under the flickering gas-jet and reading with soft, slidinginflections the words which had for twenty-four hours been gall andwormwood to his memory. And as the sentences slipped from the lad'smouth, behold, a miracle happened, for the man who had written themknew that they were great. He knew then, as many a lesser one hasknown, that out of a little loving-kindness had come great joy; thathe had wrested with gentleness a blessing from his enemy. 

"'Fourscore and seven years ago, '" the fresh voice began, and theface of the dying man stood out white in the white pillows, sharp witheagerness, and the face of the President shone as he listened as if tonew words. The field of yesterday, the speech, the deep silence whichfollowed it, all were illuminated, as his mind went back, with newmeaning. With the realization that the stillness had meant, notindifference, but perhaps, as this generous enemy had said, "The mostperfect tribute ever paid by any people to any orator, " there cameto him a rush of glad strength to bear the burdens of the nation. Theboy's tones ended clearly, deliberately:

"'We here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, andthat government of the people, by the people, for the people shall notperish from the earth. '"

There was deep stillness in the hospital ward as there had beenstillness on the field of Gettysburg. The soldier's voice broke it. "It's a wonderful speech, " he said. "There's nothing finer. Other menhave spoken stirring words, for the North and for the South, but neverbefore, I think, with the love of both breathing through them. It isonly the greatest who can be a partisan without bitterness, and onlysuch to-day may call himself not Northern or Southern, but American. To feel that your enemy can fight you to death without malice, withcharity--it lifts country, it lifts humanity to something worth dyingfor. They are beautiful, broad words and the sting of war would bedrawn if the soul of Lincoln could be breathed into the armies. Doyou agree with me?" he demanded abruptly, and Lincoln answered slowly, from a happy heart. 

"I believe it is a good speech, " he said. 

The impetuous Southerner went on: "Of course, it's all wrong frommy point of view, " and the gentleness of his look made the wordscharming. "The thought which underlies it is warped, inverted, as Ilook at it, yet that doesn't alter my admiration of the man and of hiswords. I'd like to put my hand in his before I die, " he said, and thesudden, brilliant, sweet smile lit the transparency of his face likea lamp; "and I'd like to tell him that I know that what we're allfighting for, the best of us, is the right of our country as it isgiven us to see it. " He was laboring a bit with the words now as ifhe were tired, but he hushed the boy imperiously. "When a man gets soclose to death's door that he feels the wind through it from a largeratmosphere, then the small things are blown away. The bitternessof the fight has faded for me. I only feel the love of country, thesatisfaction of giving my life for it. The speech--that speech--hasmade it look higher and simpler--your side as well as ours. I wouldlike to put my hand in Abraham Lincoln's--"

The clear, deep voice, with its hesitations, its catch of weakness, stopped short. Convulsively the hand shot out and caught at the greatfingers that hung near him, pulling the President, with the strengthof agony, to his knees by the cot. The prisoner was writhing in anattack of mortal pain, while he held, unknowing that he held it, thehand of his new friend in a torturing grip. The door of death hadopened wide and a stormy wind was carrying the bright, conqueredspirit into that larger atmosphere of which he had spoken. Suddenlythe struggle ceased, the unconscious head rested in the boy's arms, and the hand of the Southern soldier lay quiet, where he had wished toplace it, in the hand of Abraham Lincoln.