nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on
a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of
it as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that
that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we
should do this.

"But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate,
we cannot hallow, this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who
struggled here, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or
to detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say
here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the
living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they
who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us
to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us--that from
these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which
they here gave the last full measure of devotion--that 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, and that government of
the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the
earth."

There was no sound from the silent, vast assembly. The President's
large figure stood before them, at first inspired, glorified with the
thrill and swing of his words, lapsing slowly in the stillness into
lax, ungraceful lines. He stared at them a moment with sad eyes full
of gentleness, of resignation, and in the deep quiet they stared at
him. Not a hand was lifted in applause. Slowly the big, awkward man
slouched back across the platform and sank into his seat, and yet
there was no sound of approval, of recognition from the audience; only
a long sigh ran like a ripple on an ocean through rank after rank. In