suffering of the sins of the world. Abraham Lincoln, President of the
United States, journeyed with his party to assist at the consecration,
the next day, of the national cemetery at Gettysburg. The quiet
November landscape slipped past the rattling train, and the
President'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 time
to time there were flashes of that quaint wit which is linked, as
his greatness, with his name, but his mind was to-day dispirited,
unhopeful. The weight on his shoulders seemed pressing more heavily
than he had courage to press back against it, the responsibility
of one almost a dictator in a wide, war-torn country came near to
crushing, at times, the mere human soul and body. There was, moreover,
a speech to be made to-morrow to thousands who would expect their
President to say something to them worth the listening of a people
who were making history; something brilliant, eloquent, strong. The
melancholy gaze glittered with a grim smile. He--Abraham Lincoln--the
lad bred in a cabin, tutored in rough schools here and there, fighting
for, snatching at crumbs of learning that fell from rich tables,
struggling to a hard knowledge which well knew its own limitations--it
was he of whom this was expected. He glanced across the car. Edward
Everett sat there, the orator of the following day, the finished
gentleman, the careful student, the heir of traditions of learning
and breeding, of scholarly instincts and resources. The self-made
President gazed at him wistfully. From him the people might expect and
would get a balanced and polished oration. For that end he had been
born, and inheritance and opportunity and inclination had worked
together for that end's perfection. While Lincoln had wrested from a
scanty schooling a command of English clear and forcible always,
but, he feared, rough-hewn, lacking, he feared, in finish and in
breadth--of what use was it for such a one to try to fashion a speech