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Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews
1908
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 packag