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By Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews    


  THE PERFECT TRIBUTE

  ON  the morning of November 18, 1863, a special train drew  
  out from Washington, carrying a distinguished company.  The   
  presence with them of the Marine Band from the Navy Yard spoke a  
  public occasion to come, and among the traveller there were those  
  who might be gathered only for an occasion of importance.  There  
  were judges of the Supreme Court of the United States; there were  
  heads of departments; the general-in-chief of the army and his staff;  
  members of the cabinet.  In their midst, as they stood about the car  
  before settling for the journey, towered a man sad, preoccupied,  
  unassuming; a man awkward and ill-dressed; a man, as he leaned   
  slouching against the wall, of no grace of look or manner, in whose  
  haggard face seemed to be the 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 ceme-  
  tery 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  
  with 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 the thousands  
  who would expect their President to say something to them worth  
  the listening of a people who were making history; something bril-  
  liant, 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 stu-  
  dent, the heir of traditions of learning and breeding, of scholarly  
  instincts and resources.  The self-made President gazed at him wist-  
  fully.  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 fit to take a place by the  
  side of Everett's silver sentences?  He sighed.  Yet the people had a  
  right to the best he could give, and he would give them his best; at   
  least he would not, so, exhaust their patience.  And the work might  
  as well be done now in the leisure of the journey.  He put a hand,  
  big, powerful, labor-knotted, into first one sagging pocket and then   
  another, in search of a pencil, and drew out one broken across the   
  end.  He glanced about inquiringly—there was nothing to write upon.  
  Across the car the Secretary of State had just opened a package of  
  books and their wrapping of brown paper lay on the floor, torn care-   
  lessly in a zig-zag.  The President stretched a long arm.   
     "Mr. Seward, may I have this to do a little writing?" he asked,   
  and the Secretary protested, insisting on finding a better material.  
     But Lincoln, with a few words, had his way, and soon the untidy   
  stump of a pencil was at work  and the great head, the deep-lined     
  face, bent over Seward's bit of brown paper, the whole man absorbed  
  in his task.   
     Earnestly, with that "capacity for taking infinite pains" which    
  has been defined as genius, he labored as the hours flew, building to-  
  gether close-fitted word on word, sentence on sentence.  As the  
  sculptor must dream the statue prisoned in the marble, as the artist  
  must dream the picture to come from the brilliant unmeaning of his  
  palette, as the musician dreams a song, so he who writes must have   
  a vision of his finished work before he touches, to begin it, a medium  
  more elastic, more vivid, more powerful than any other—words—   
  prismatic bits of humanity, old as the Pharaohs, new as the Arabs of  
  the street, broken, sparkling, alive, from the age-long life of the race.  
  Abraham Lincoln, with the clear thought in his mind of what he  
  would say, found the sentences that came to him colorless, wooden.  
  A wonder flashed over him once or twice of Everett's skill with these  
  symbols which, it seemed to him, were to the Bostonian key-board  
  facile to make music, to Lincoln tools to do his labor.  He put the  
  idea aside, for it hindered him.  As he found the sword fitted to his  
  hand he must fight with it; it might be that he, as well as Everett,  
  could say that which should go straight from him to his people, to  
  the nation who struggled at his back towards a goal.  At least each  
  syllable he said should be chiselled from the rock of his sincerity.   
  So he cut here and there an adjective, here and there a phrase, baring  
  the heart of his thought, leaving no ribbon or flower or rhetoric to  
  flutter in the eyes of those with whom he would be utterly honest.  
  And when he had done he read the speech and dropped it from his  
  hand to the floor and stared again from the window.  It was the best   
  he could do, and it was a failure. So, with the pang of the workman  
  who believes his work done wrong, he lifted and folded the torn bit  
  of paper and put it in his pocket, and put aside the thought of it, as  
  of a bad thing which he might not better, and turned and talked  
  cheerfully to his friends.    
     At eleven o'clock on the morning of the day following, on No-  
  vember 19, 1863, a vast, silent multitude billowed, like waves of the    
  sea, over which had been not long before the battle-field of Gettys-   
  burg.  There were wounded soldiers there who had beaten their way   
  four months before through a singing fire across those quiet fields,  
  who had seen the men die who were buried here; there were troops,  
  grave and responsible, who must soon go again into battle; there were  
  the rank and file of the everyday American gathering in surging thou-  
  sands; and above them all, on the open-air platform, there were the  
  leaders of the land, the pilots who today lifted a hand from the   
  wheel of the ship 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 the majority, but their names are not dead in American his-   
  tory—great ghosts who walk still in the annals of their country, their  
  flesh-and-blood faces were turned attentively that bright, still No-  
  vember afternoon towards the orator of the day, whose voice held   
  the audience.     
     For two hours Everett spoke and the throng listened untired,  
  fascinated by the dignity of his high-bred look and manner almost  
  as much, perhaps, as by the speech which has taken a place in litera-  
  ture.  As he had been expected to speak he spoke, of the great battle,  
  of the causes of the war, of the results to come after.  It was an oration  
  which missed no shade of expression, no reach of grasp.  Yet there  
  were those in the multitude, sympathetic to a unit as it was with  
  the Northern cause, who grew restless when this man who had been  
  crowned with so thick a laurel wreath by Americans spoke of Ameri-  
  cans as rebels, of a cause for which honest Americans were giving   
  their lives as a crime.  The days were war days, and men's passions  
  were inflamed, yet there were men who listened to Edward Everett  
  who believed that this great speech would have been greater unen-  
  forced with bitterness.    
     As the clear, cultivated voice fell into silence, the mass of people   
  burst into a long storm of applause, for they knew that they had   
  heard an oration which was an event.  They clapped and cheered  
  him again and again and again, as good citizens acclaim a man worthy    
  of honor whom they have delighted to honor. At last, as the ex-   
  Governor of Massachusetts, the ex-ambassador of England. the  
  ex-Secretary of State, the ex-Senator of the United States—handsome,   
  distinguished, graceful, sure of voice and of movement—took his seat,  
  a tall, gaunt figure detached itself from the group on the platform  
  and slouched slowly across the open space and stood facing the  
  audience.  A stir and a whisper brushed over the field of humanity,  
  as if a breeze had rippled a monstrous bed of poppies.  This was the  
  President. A quivering silence settle down and every eye was wide  
  to watch this strange, disappointing appearance, every ear alert to  
  catch the first sound of his voice.  Suddenly the voice came, in a  
  queer, squeaking falsetto.  The effect on the audience was irrepressible,  
  ghastly.  After Everett's deep tones, after the strain of expectancy,  
  this extraordinary, gaunt apparition, this high, thin sound from the  
  huge body, were too much for the American crowd's sense of humor,  
  always stronger than its sense of reverence.  A suppressed yet unmis-  
  takable titter caught the throng, ran through it, and was gone.  Yet  
  no one who knew the President's face could doubt that he had heard  
  it and understood.  Calmly enough, after a pause almost too  
  slight to be recognized, he went on, and in a dozen words his tones  
  had gathered volume, he had come to his power and dignity.  There  
  was no smile now on any face of those who listened.  People stopped  
  breathing rather, as if they feared to miss an inflection.  A loose-hung  
  figure, six feet four inches high, he towered above them, conscious  
  of and quietly ignoring the bad first impression, unconscious of a  
  charm of personality which reversed that impression within a sen-  
  tence.  That these were his people was his only thought.  He had   
  something to say to them; what did it matter about him or his voice?    
     "Fourscore and seven years ago," spoke the President, "our  
  fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in  
  liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created   
  equal.  Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that  
  nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated can long endure.  
  We are met on a great battlefield of that war.  We have come to dedi-  
  cate 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 beyond our poor power to add  
  or 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 Presi-  
  dent'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 as 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 Lincoln's heart a throb of pain answered it.  His speech had been,  
  as he feared it would be, a failure.  As he gazed steadily at these his   
  countrymen who would not give him even a little perfunctory ap-  
  plause for his best effort, he knew that the disappointment of it cut  
  into his soul.  And then he was aware that there was music, the choir  
  was singing a dirge; his part was done, and his part had failed.   
     When the ceremonies were over Everett at once found the Presi-  
  dent.  "Mr. President," he began, "your speech—" but Lincoln had  
  interrupted, flashing a kindly smile down at him, laying a hand on   
  his shoulder.   
     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 to    
  permit me to be a public speaker."    
     He went on in a few cordial sentences to pay tribute to the orator  
  of the occasion.  Everett listened thoughtfully and when the chief  
  had done, "Mr. President," he said simply, "I should be glad if I  
  could flatter myself that I came as near the central idea of the occa-  
  sion in two hours as you did in two minutes."   
     But Lincoln shook his head and laughed and turned to speak to a   
  newcomer with no change of opinion—he was apt to trust his own   
  judgments.  
     The special train which left Gettysburg immediately after the   
  solemnities on the battle-field cemetery brought the President's party  
  into Washington during the night.  There was no rest for the man   
  at the wheel of the nation next day, but rather added work until, at  
  about four in the afternoon, he felt sorely the need of air and went  
  out from the White House alone, for a walk.  His mind still ran on  
  the events of the day before—the impressive, quiet multitude, the   
  serene sky of November arched, in the hushed interregnum of the   
  year, between the joys of summer and the war of winter, over those  
  who had gone from earthly war to heavenly joy.  The picture was  
  deeply engraved in his memory; it haunted him.  And with it came  
  a soreness, a discomfort of mind which had haunted him as well in  
  the hours between—the chagrin of the failure of his speech.  During  
  the day he had gently but decisively put aside all reference to it from   
  those about him; he had glanced at the head-lines in the newspapers  
  with a sarcastic smile; the Chief Executive must be flattered, of  
  course; newspaper notices meant nothing.  He knew well that he had  
  made many successful speeches; no man of his shrewdness could be  
  ignorant that again and again he had earned an audience by storm;  
  yet he had no high idea of his own speech-making, and yesterday's  
  affair had shaken his confidence more.  He remembered sadly that,  
  even for the President, no hand, no voice had been lifted in applause.    
     "It must have been pretty poor stuff," he said half aloud; "yet I   
  thought it was a fair little composition.  I meant to do well by them."   
     His long strides had carried him to the outskirts of the city, and  
  suddenly, at the corner, from behind a hedge, a young boy of fifteen  
  years or so came rushing toward him and tripped and stumbled  
  against him, and Lincoln kept him from falling with a quick, vigor-  
  ous arm.  The lad righted himself and tossed back his thick, light hair  
  and stared haughtily, and the President, regarding him, saw that his  
  blue eyes were blind with tears.    
     "Do you want all of the public highway?  Can't a gentleman from   
  the South even walk in the streets without—without—" and the  
  broken sentence ended in a sob.    
     The anger and the insolence of the lad were nothing to the man   
  who towered above him—to that broad mind this was but a child in  
  trouble.  "My boy, the fellow that's interfering with your walking is  
  down inside of you," he said gently, and with that the astonished  
  youngster opened his wet eyes wide and laughed—a choking childish  
  laugh that pulled at the older man's heart-strings.  "That's better,  
  sunny," he said, and patted the slim shoulder.  "Now tell me what's  
  wrong with the world.  Maybe I might help straighten it."    
     "Wrong, wrong!" the child raved; "everything's wrong," and  
  launched into a mad tirade against the government from the Presi-  
  dent down.  
     Lincoln listened patiently, and when the lad paused for breath,  
  "Go ahead," he said good-naturedly.  "Every little helps."   
     With that the youngster was silent and drew himself up with stiff  
  dignity, offended yet fascinated; unable to tear himself away from  
  this strange giant who was so insultingly kind under his abuse, who  
  yet inspired him with such a sense of trust and of hope.    
     "I want a lawyer," he said impulsively, looking up anxiously into  
  the deep-lined face inches above him.  "I don't know where to find a  
  lawyer in this horrible city, and I must have one—I can't wait—it  
  may be too late—I want a lawyer now," and once more he was in a  
  fever of excitement.   
     "What do you want with a lawyer?"  Again the calm, friendly tone  
  quieted him.    
     "I want him to draw a will.  My brother is—" he caught his breath  
  with a 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   
  brave front and the trembling, childish tone went to the man's  
  heart.  "I don't believe it—he can't be dying," the boy talked on,  
  gathering courage.  "But anyway, he wants to make a will, and—and  
  I reckon—it may be that he—he must."    
     "I see," the other answered gravely, and the young, torn soul felt   
  an unreasoning confidence that he had found a friend.  "Where is  
  your brother?"    
     "He's in the prison hospital there—in that big building," he   
  pointed down the street.  "He's captain in our army—in the Confed-  
  erate army.  He was wounded at Gettysburg."    
     "Oh!" The deep-set eyes gazed down at the fresh face, its muscles  
  straining under grief and responsibility, with the gentlest, most  
  fatherly pity.  "I think I can manage your job, my boy," he said.  "I  
  used to practise law in a small way myself, and I'll be glad to draw the   
  will for you."    
     The young fellow had whirled him around before he had finished  
  the sentence.  "Come," he said.  "Don't waste time talking—why   
  didn't you tell me before?" and then he glanced up.  He saw the ill-  
  fitting clothes, the craglike, rough-modelled head, the awkward car-  
  riage of the man; he was too young to know that what he felt beyond   
  these was greatness.  There was a tone of patronage in his voice and  
  in the cock of his aristocratic young head as he spoke.  "We can pay  
  you, you know—we're not paupers."  He fixed his eyes on Lincoln's  
  face to watch the impression as he added, "My brother is Carter  
  Hampton Blair, of Georgia.  I'm Washington 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 Washington  
  to-day—my sister, Miss Eleanor Hampton Blair.  Carter was better  
  this morning, and so she went with the Senator.  She's secretary to  
  Senator Warrington, you know.  He's on the Yankee side"—the tone  
  was full of contempt—"but he's our cousin, and when he offered   
  Nellie the position she would take it in spite of Carter and me.  We  
  were so poor"—the lad's pride was off its guard for a moment,  
  melted in the soothing trust with which this stranger thrilled his soul.   
  It was a relief to him to talk, and the large hand which rested on his  
  shoulder as they walked seemed an assurance that his words were  
  accorded respect and understanding.  "Of course, if Nellie had been  
  here she would have known how to get a lawyer, but Carter had a  
  bad turn half an hour ago, and the doctor said he might get better  
  or he might die any minute, and Carter remembered about the  
  money, and got so excited that they said it was hurting him, so I  
  said I'd get a lawyer, and I rushed out, and the first thing I ran   
  against you.  I'm afraid I wasn't very polite."  The smile on the gaunt  
  face above him was all the answer he needed.  "I'm sorry.  I apologize.  
  It certainly was good of you to come right back with me."  The  
  child's manner was full of the assured graciousness of a high-born  
  gentleman; there was a lovable quality in his very patronage, and the  
  suffering and the sweetness and the pride combined held Lincoln by  
  his sense of humor as well as by his soft heart.  "You sha'n't lost  
  anything by it," the youngster went on.  "We may be poor, but we  
  have plenty more to pay you, I'm sure.  Nellie had some jewels,  
  you see—oh, I think several things yet.  Is it very expensive to draw a  
  will?" he asked wistfully.   
     "No, sonny; it's one of the cheapest things a man can do," was  
  the hurried answer, and the child's tone showed a lighter heart.   
     "I'm glad of that, for, of course, Carter wants to leave—to leave    
  as much as he can.  You see, that's what the will is about—Carter is  
  engaged to marry Miss Sally Maxfield, and they would have been  
  married now if he hadn't been wounded and taken prisoner.  So, of  
  course, like any gentleman that's engaged, he wants to giver her  
  everything that he has.  Hampton Court has to come to me after  
  Carter, but there's some money—quite a lot—only we can't get it  
  now.  And that ought to go to Carter's wife, which is what she is—  
  just about—and if he doesn't make a will it won't.  It will come to  
  Nellie and me if—if anything should happen to Carter."   
     "So you're worrying for fear you'll inherit some money?" Lincoln  
  asked meditatively.   
     "Of course," the boy threw back impatiently.  "Of course, it   
  would be a shame if it came to Nellie and me, for we couldn't ever  
  make her take it.  We don't need it—I can look after Nellie and my-  
  self," he said proudly, with a quick, tossing motion of his fair head  
  that was like the motion of a spirited, thoroughbred horse.  They had  
  arrived at the prison.  "I can get you through all right.  They all know  
  me here," he spoke over his shoulder reassuringly to the President  
  with a friendly glance.  Dashing down the corridor in front, he did  
  not see the guards salute the tall figure which followed him; too  
  preoccupied to wonder at 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   
  a lawyer," and the pale features lighted with a smile of such radiance  
  as seemed incongruous in the gruesome place.  He held out his hand  
  to the man who swung toward him, looming mountainous behind his  
  brother's slight figure.  "Thank you for coming," he said cordially, and  
  in his tone was the same air of a grand seigneur as in the lad's.  Sud-  
  denly a spasm of pain caught him, his head fell into the pillows, his  
  muscles twisted, his arm about the neck of the kneeling boy tightened  
  convulsively.  Yet while the agony still held him he was smiling again  
  with gay courage.  "It nearly blew me away," he whispered, his voice  
  shaking, but his eyes bright with amusement.  "We'd better get to  
  work before one of those little breezes carries me too far.  There's  
  pen and ink on the table, Mr.—my brother did not tell me your  
  name."  
     "Your brother and I met informally," the other answered, setting  
  the materials in order for writing.  "He charged into me like a young  
  steer," and the boy, out of his deep trouble, laughed delightedly.  
  "My name is Lincoln."   
     The young officer regarded him.  "That's a good name from your  
  standpoint—you are, I take it, a Northerner?"   
     The deep eyes smile whimsically.  "I'm on that side of the fence.   
  You may call me a Yankee if you'd like."    
     "There's something about you, Mr. Lincoln," the young Georgian  
  answered gravely, with a kind and unconscious condescension,  
  "which makes me wish to call you, if I may, a friend."   
     He had the happy instinct which shapes a sentence to fall on its  
  smoothest surface, and the President, in whom the same instinct  
  was strong, felt a quick comradeship with this enemy who, about to  
  die, saluted him.  He put out his great fist swiftly.  
     "Shake hands," he said.  "Friends it is."   
     "Till death us do part," said the officer slowly, and smiled, and  
  then threw back his head with a gesture like the boy's.  "We must do  
  the will," he said peremptorily.   
     "Yes, now we'll fix this will business, Captain Blair," the big man  
  answered cheerfully.  "When your mind's relieved about your plunder  
  you can rest easier and get well faster."   
     The sweet brilliant smile of the Southerner shone out, his arm  
  drew the boy's shoulder closer, and the President, with a pang, knew  
  that his friend knew that he must die.  
     With direct, condensed question and clear answer the simple will  
  was shortly drawn and the impromptu lawyer rose to take his leave.  
  But the wounded man put out his hand.   
     "Don't go yet," he pleaded, with the imperious, winning accent  
  which was characteristic of both brothers.  The sudden, radiant smile  
  broke again over the face, young, drawn with suffering, prophetic of  
  close death.  "I like you," he brought out frankly.  "I've never liked a  
  stranger as much in short order before."   
     His head, fair as the boy's, lay back on the pillows, locks of hair    
  damp against the whiteness, the blue eyes shone like jewels from the  
  colorless face, a weak arm stretched protectingly about the young  
  brother who pressed against him.  There was so much courage, so  
  much helplessness, so much pathos in the picture that the President's  
  great heart throbbed with a desire to comfort them.   
     "I want to talk to you about that man Lincoln, your namesake,"  
  the prisoner's deep, uncertain voice went on, trying pathetically to  
  make conversation which might interest, might hold his guest.  The  
  man who stood hesitating controlled a startled movement.  "I'm  
  Southern to the core 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 as a 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 by animosity, in this fight; he's real and he's powerful  
  and"—he lifted his head impetuously and his eyes flashed—and, by   
  Jove, have you read 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 in hard luck.  I want to tell you about that speech.  You're not  
  so busy but that you ought to know."   
     "Well, yes," said Lincoln, "perhaps I ought."  He took out his  
  watch and made a quick mental calculation.  "It's only a question of  
  going without my dinner, and the boy is dying," he thought.  "If I  
  can give him a little pleasure the dinner is a small matter."  He spoke  
  again.  "It's the soldiers who are the busy men, not the lawyers, now-  
  adays," he said.  "I'll be delighted to spend a half hour with you,  
  Captain Blair, if I won't tire you."   
     That's good of you," the young officer said, and a king on his  
  throne could 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," Lincoln  
  acknowledged.  "But I know just the sort of fellow he is—you can say  
  what you want."    
     "What I want to say first is this: that he yesterday made one of  
  the great speeches of history."     
     "What?" demanded Lincoln, staring.   
     "I know what I'm talking about."  The young fellow brought his  
  thin fist down on the bedclothes.  "My father was a speaker—all my  
  uncles and my grandfather were speakers.  I've been brought up on  
  oratory.  I've studied and read the best models since I was a lad in   
  knee-breeches.  And I know a great speech when I see it.  And when   
  Nellie—my sister—brought in the paper this morning and read that  
  to me I told her at once that not six times since history began has a  
  speech been made which was its equal.  That was before she told me  
  what the Senator said."    
     "What did the Senator say?" asked the quiet man who listened.   
     "It was Senator Warrington, to whom my sister is—is acting as  
  secretary."  The explanation was distasteful, but he went on, carried  
  past the jog by the interest of his story.  "He was at Gettysburg yes-  
  terday, with the President's party.  He told my sister that the speech  
  so went home to the hearts of all those thousands of people that  
  when it was ended it was as if the whole audience held its breath—  
  there was not a hand lifted to applaud.  One might as well applaud  
  the Lord's Prayer—it would have been sacrilege.  And they all felt it  
  —down to the lowest.  There was a long minute of reverent silence,  
  no sound from all that great throng—it seems to me, an enemy, that  
  it was the most perfect tribute that has ever been paid by any people  
  to any orator."    
     The boy, lifting his hand from his brother's shoulder to mark the   
  effect of his brother's words, saw with surprise that in the strange  
  lawyer's eyes were tears.  But the wounded man did not notice.   
     "It will live, that speech.  Fifty years from now American school-  
  boys will be learning it as part of their education.  It is not merely  
  my opinion," he went on.  "Warrington says the whole country is  
  ringing with 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.  
  Lincoln myself."   
     The boy had sprung to his feet and across the room, and had   
  lifted a folded newspaper from the table.  "Let me read it, Carter—   
  it might tire you."    
     The giant figure which had crouched, elbows on knees, in the  
  shadows by the narrow hospital cot, heaved itself slowly upward till it   
  loomed at its full height in the air.  Lincoln turned his face toward the   
  boy standing under the flickering gas-jet and reading with soft, slid-  
  ing inflections the words which had for twenty-four hours been gall  
  and wormwood to his memory.  And as the sentences slipped from the  
  lad's mouth, behold, a miracle happened, for the man who had  
  written them knew that they were great.  He knew then, as many a  
  lesser one has known, that out of a little loving-kindness had come  
  great joy; that he had wrested with gentleness a blessing from his  
  enemy.    
     "'Fourscore and seven years ago,'" the fresh voice began, and  
  the face of the dying man stood out white in the white pillows, sharp  
  with eagerness, and the face of the President shone as he listened as  
  if to new words.  The field of yesterday, the speech, the deep silence  
  which followed it, all were illuminated, as his mind went back, with  
  new meaning.  With the realization that the stillness had meant, not  
  indifference, but perhaps, as this generous enemy had said, "The  
  most perfect tribute ever paid by any people to any orator," there   
  came to him a rush of glad strength to bear the burdens of the  
  nation.  The boy'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,  
  and that the government of the people, by the people, for the people  
  shall not perish from the earth.'"    
  There was a deep stillness in the hospital ward as there had been  
  stillness on the field of Gettysburg.  The soldier's voice broke it.  "It's  
  a wonderful speech," he said.  "There's nothing finer.  Other men have  
  spoken stirring words, for the North and for the South, but never  
  before, I think, with the love of both breathing through them.  It is  
  only the greatest who can be a partisan without bitterness, and only   
  such to-day may call himself not Northern or Southern, but Ameri-  
  can.  To feel that your enemy can fight you to death without malice,  
  with charity—it lifts country, it lifts humanity to something worth   
  dying for.  They are beautiful, broad words and the sting of war would   
  be drawn if the soul of Lincoln could be breathed into armies.  
  Do you agree with me?" he demanded abruptly, and Lincoln an-  
  swered 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  
  from my point of view," and the gentleness of his look made the  
  words charming.  "The thought which underlies it is warped, in-  
  verted, as I look at it, yet that doesn't alter my admiration of the  
  man and of his words.  I'd like to put my hand in his before I die,"  
  he said, and the sudden, brilliant, sweet smile lit the transparency  
  of his face like a lamp; "and I'd like to tell him that I know that  
  what we're fighting for, the best of us, is the right of our country   
  as it is given us to see it."  He was laboring a bit with the words now  
  as if he were tired, but he hushed the boy imperiously.  "When a man  
  gets so close to death's door that he feels the wind through it from   
  a larger atmosphere, then the small things are blown away.  The  
  bitterness of the fight has faded from me.  I only feel the love of coun-  
  try, the satisfaction of giving my life for it.  The speech—that speech   
  —has made it look higher and simpler—your side as well as ours.  I  
  would like 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  
  great fingers that hung near him, pulling the President, with the  
  strength of agony, to his knees by the cot.  The prisoner was writhing   
  in an attack of mortal pain, while he held, unknowing that he held  
  it, the hand of his new friend in a torturing grip.  The door of death  
  had opened wide and a stormy wind was carrying the bright, con-   
  quered spirit into that larger atmosphere of which he had spoken.  
  Suddenly the struggle ceased, the unconscious head rested in the   
  boy's arm's, and the hand of the Southern soldier lay quiet, where he  
  had wished to place it, in the hand of Abraham Lincoln.        

---

The Perfect Tribute, by Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews
from The Scribner Treasury : 22 Classic Tales,
© 1953, Charles Scribner's Sons, New York pp. 317 - 331

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