Lincoln Remembered

February 20, 2000

For almost as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated by the history and events of the American Civil War. My interest was first sparked by some tattered volumes of Civil War photographs in my 5th grade classroom. I was continually taking those books down from the shelf in my spare time; they drew me into a world which was distant but strangely familiar. Later, I would learn that members of my own family, brothers of my great-grandfather, had fought and died in that war, one at Manassas and one at Gettysburg. Years later I would visit these places. What must it have been like, I wondered, to be caught up in that awful carnage? Why did they go? What dreams of glory compelled them, what leaders inspired them?

Inseparable from the Civil War is Abraham Lincoln. He is larger than life, an American folk hero, and it is difficult to separate fact from myth when studying his life. Undoubtedly, many of the stories about him are apocryphal, though we must trust that they contain a grain of truth. They capture a simple, yet complex character: the brilliant bumpkin, the decent yet toughly realistic man. The man for that terrible hour. The great though reluctant "defender of minority rights," as recent biographer David Donald has called him.

Stories of Lincoln's kindness abound, but he was not naive: he knew what it took to win a war. A story concerning General Grant reveals his realism. Just previous to the fall of Vicksburg a self-constituted committee, solicitous for the morale of the army, took it upon themselves to visit the President and urge the removal of General Grant. In some surprise, Lincoln inquired, "For what reason?" "Why, he drinks too much whiskey." "Ah! By the way, gentlemen, can either of you tell me where General Grant procures his whiskey? Because if I can find out, I will send every general in the field a barrel of it!"

Lincoln knew that it would take men like Grant and William Tecumseh Sherman, ruthless men, some would say unethical men--modern military men--to win the war. But he pressed them into action, and he held the reins until the bitter end. Nonetheless, one suspects that the South would have fared better after the war had Lincoln lived. Sherman, not known for his sensitivity, recorded his last meeting with Lincoln as follows: "I know when I left him, that I was more than ever impressed by his kindly nature, his deep and earnest sympathy with the afflictions of the whole people, resulting from the war, and by the march of hostile armies through the South; and that his earnest desire seemed to be to end the war speedily, without more bloodshed and devastation. . . . Of all the men I ever met, he seemed to possess more of the elements of greatness, combined with goodness, than any other."

Walt Whitman, the great American poet, believed that Lincoln was a great man, and in every classical sense, a martyr. In Boston, in 1881, Whitman spoke on this theme by describing Lincoln's last night alive while attending the Ford Theatre in Washington. Between the paragraphs of his "you are there" report, I will relate some stories that have been told about Lincoln, as a way of remembering him on this President's Day weekend, lest we forget the reason for this holiday. We may never succeed in separating the man from his legend, but it is his legend that we need. [These and the following excerpts are from Whitman's Lecture "Death of Abraham Lincoln."]

Walt Whitman: The day, April 14, 1865, seems to have been a pleasant one throughout the whole land--the moral atmosphere pleasant too--the long storm, so dark, so fratricidal, full of blood and doubt and gloom, over and ended at last by the sun-rise of such an absolute National victory, and utter break-down of Secessionism--we almost doubted our own senses! Lee had capitulated beneath the apple-tree of Appomattox. The other armies, the flanges of the revolt, swiftly follow'd. And could it really be, then? Out of all the affairs of this world of woe and failure and disorder, was there really come the confirm'd, unerring sign of plan, like a shaft of pure light--of rightful rule--of God? So the day, as I say, was propitious. Early herbage, early flowers, were out. (I remember where I was stopping at the time, the season being advanced, there were many lilacs in full bloom. By one of those caprices that enter and give tinge to events without being at all a part of them, I find myself always reminded of the great tragedy of that day by the sight and odor of these blossoms. It never fails.)

The friends of General Cass, when that gentleman was a candidate for the Presidency, endeavored to endow him with a military reputation. Mr. Lincoln, at that time a representative in congress, delivered a speech before the House, which in its illusions to Mr. Cass, was both exquisitely sarcastic and irresistibly humorous.

"By the way, Mr. Speaker, do you know I am a military hero? Yes sir, in the days of the Black Hawk War, I fought, bled, and came away. Speaking of Gen. Cass' career reminds me of my own. I was not at Stillman's defeat, but I was about as near to it as Cass to Hull's surrender; and like him I saw the place very soon afterward. It is quite certain I did not break my sword, for I had none to break, but I bent my musket pretty badly on one occasion. . . . If Gen. Cass went in advance of me in picking whortleberries, I guess I surpassed him in charges upon the wild onion. If he saw any live, fighting Indians, it is more than I did, but I had a good many bloody struggles with the mosquitoes, and although I never fainted from loss of blood, I can truly say I was often very hungry."

Walt Whitman: But I must not dwell on accessories. The deed hastens. The popular afternoon paper of Washington, the little "Evening Star," had spatter'd all over its third page, divided among the advertisements in a sensational manner, in a hundred different places, The President and his Lady will be at the Theatre this evening. . . . (Lincoln was fond of the theatre. I have myself seen him there several times. I remember thinking how funny it was that he, in some respects the leading actor in the stormiest drama known to real history's stage through centuries, should sit there and be so completely interested and absorb'd in those human jack-straws, moving about with their silly little gestures, foreign spirit, and flatulent text.)

On this occasion the theatre was crowded, many ladies in rich and gay costumes, officers in their uniforms, many well-known citizens, young folks, the usual clusters of gas-lights, the usual magnetism of so many people, cheerful, with perfumes, music of violins and flutes--(and over all, and saturating all, that vast, vague wonder, Victory, the nation's victory, the triumph of the Union, filling the air, the thought, the sense, with exhilaration more than all music and perfumes.)

"My early history," said Mr. Lincoln to J.L. Scripps, "is perfectly characterized by a single line of Gray's elegy: 'The short and simple annals of the poor.'" The compiler of the Dictionary of Congress states that while preparing the work for publication in 1858, he sent to Lincoln the usual request for a sketch of his life, and received the following reply: "Born February 12, 1809, in Hardin County, Kentucky. Education defective. Profession a Lawyer. Have been a Captain of Volunteers in Black Hawk War. Postmaster at a very small office. Four times a member of the Illinois legislature, and was a member of the lower house of Congress. Yours etc., A. Lincoln."

Walt Whitman: The President came betimes, and, with his wife, witness'd the play from the large stage-boxes of the second tier, two thrown into one, and profusely draped with the national flag. The acts and scenes of the piece--one of those singularly written compositions which have at least the merit of giving entire relief to an audience engaged in mental action or business excitements and care during the day, as it makes not the slightest call on either the moral, emotional, esthetic, or spiritual nature--a piece ("Our American Cousin") in which, among other characters, so call'd, a Yankee, certainly such a one as was never seen, or the least like it ever seen, in North America, is introduced in England, with a varied fol-de-rol of talk, plot, scenery, and such phantasmagoria as goes to make up a modern popular drama--had progress'd through perhaps a couple of its acts, when in the midst of this comedy, or non-such, or whatever it is to be call'd, and to offset it, or finish it out, as if in Nature's and the great Muse's mockery of those poor mimes, came interpolated that scene, not really or exactly to be described at all, (for on the many hundreds who were there it seems to this hour to have left a passing blur, a blotch)--and yet partially to be described as I [soon] proceed to give it.

Mr. Lincoln made his first political speech in 1832, at the age of 23, when he was a candidate for the Illinois legislature. His opponent had wearied the audience by a long speech, leaving Lincoln but a short time in which to present his views. He condensed all he had to say in a few words, as follows: "Gentlemen, Fellow Citizens: I presume you know who I am. I am humble Abraham Lincoln. I have been solicited by my friends to become a candidate for the legislature. My politics can be briefly stated. I am in favor of the Internal Improvement system, and a High Protective Tariff. These are my sentiments and political principles. If elected, I shall be thankful. If not, it will be all the same."

Walt Whitman: There is a scene in the play representing a modern parlor, in which two unprecedented English ladies are inform'd by the impossible Yankee that he is not a man of fortune, and therefore undesirable for marriage-catching purposes; after which, the comments being finish'd, the dramatic trio make exit, leaving the stage clear for a moment. At this period, came the murder of Abraham Lincoln. Great as all its manifold train, circling round it, and stretching in the future for many a century, in the politics, history, art, etc., of the New World, in point of fact the main thing, the actual murder, transpired with the quiet and simplicity of any commonest occurrence--the bursting of a bud or pod in the growth of vegetation, for instance. Through the general hum following the stage pause, with the change of positions, came the muffled sound of a pistol-shot, which not one-hundredth part of the audience heard at the time--and yet a moment's hush--somehow, surely, a vague startled thrill--and then, through the ornamented, draperied, starr'd and striped spaceway of the President's box, a sudden figure, a man, raises himself with hands and feet, stands a moment on the railing, leaps below to the stage, (a distance of perhaps fourteen or fifteen feet,) falls out of position, catching his boot-heel in the copious drapery, (the American flag,) falls on one knee, quickly recovers himself, rises as if nothing had happen'd, (he really sprains his ankle, but unfelt then)--and so the figure, Booth, the murderer, dress'd in plain black broadcloth, bare-headed, with full, glossy, raven hair, and his eyes like some made animal's flashing with light and resolution, yet with a certain strange calmness, holds aloft in one hand a large knife--walks along not much back from the footlights--turns fully toward the audience his face of statuesque beauty, lit by those basilisk eyes, flashing with desperation, perhaps insanity--launches out in a firm and steady voice the words

Sic semper tyrannus--and then walks with neither slow nor very rapid pace diagonally across the back of the stage, and disappears. (Had not all this terrible scene--making the mimic ones preposterous--had it not all been rehears'd, in blank, by Booth, beforehand?)

As the war approached its close, Mr. Lincoln and General Sherman were in consultation at City Point. One of the questions considered was what should be done with Jefferson Davis when captured. General Sherman inquired if he should let him escape. Mr. Lincoln told him the story of the temperance lecturer who was plentifully supplied with lemonade. The host in a modest way inquired if the least bit of something stronger to brace him up would be agreeable. The lecturer answered that he could not think of it--he was opposed to it on principle; but, glancing at the black bottle near by, he added: "If you could manage to put in a little drop unbeknown to me, it wouldn't hurt me much." "Now General," said the President, "I am bound to oppose the escape of Jeff Davis, but if you can manage to let him slip out unbeknownst to me, I guess it wouldn't hurt me much."

Walt Whitman: A moment's hush--a scream--the cry of murder--Mrs. Lincoln leaning out of the box, with ashy cheeks and lips, with involuntary cry, pointing to the retreating figure, He has kill'd the President. And still a moment's strange, incredulous suspense--and then the deluge!--then that mixture of horror, noises, uncertainty--(the sound, somewhere back, of a horse's hoofs clattering with speed)--the people burst through chairs and railings, and break them up--there is inextricable confusion and terror--women faint--quite feeble persons fall, and are trampled on--many cries of agony are heard--the broad stage suddenly fills to suffocation with a dense and motley crowd, like some horrible carnival--the audience rush generally upon it, at least the strong men do--the actors and actresses are all there in their play-costumes and painted faces, with mortal fright showing through the rouge--the screams and calls, confused talk--redoubled, trebled--two or three manage to pass up water from the stage to the President's box--others try to clamber up--etc., etc.

In the midst of all this, the soldiers of the President's guard, with others, suddenly drawn to the scene, burst in--(some two hundred altogether)--they storm the house, through all the tiers, especially the upper ones, inflamed with fury, literally charging the audience with fix'd bayonets, muskets and pistols, shouting

Clear out! clear out! you sons of _________. . . . Such the wild scene, or a suggestion of it rather, inside the play-house that night.

When Abraham Lincoln was a lawyer in Illinois, he and a certain Judge once got to bantering each other about trading horses; and it was agreed that the next morning at 9 o'clock they should make a trade, the horses to be unseen up to that hour, and no backing out, under a forfeiture of $25. At the hour appointed the Judge came up, leading the sorriest specimen of a horse ever seen in those parts. In a few minutes Mr. Lincoln was seen approaching, with a wooden saw horse upon his shoulders. Great were the shouts and the laughter of the crowd, and both were greatly increased when Mr. Lincoln, on surveying the Judge's animal, set down his saw horse, and exclaimed, "Well, Judge, this is the first time I ever got the worst of it in a horse trade."

Walt Whitman: Outside, too, in the atmosphere of shock and craze, crowds of people, fill'd with frenzy, ready to seize any outlet for it, come near committing murder several times on innocent individuals. One such case was especially exciting. The infuriated crowd, through some chance, got started against one man, either for words he utter'd, or perhaps without any cause at all, and were proceeding at once to actually hang him on a neighboring lamp-post, when he was rescued by a few heroic policemen, who placed him in their midst, and fought their way slowly and amid great peril toward the station house. It was a fitting episode of the whole affair. The crowd rushing and eddying to and fro--the night, the yells, the pale faces, many frighten'd people trying in vain to extricate themselves--the attack'd man, not yet freed from the jaws of death, looking like a corpse--the silent, resolute, half-dozen policemen, with no weapons but their little clubs, yet stern and steady through all the eddying swarms--made a fitting side-scene to the grand tragedy of the murder. They gain'd the station house with the protected man, whom they placed in security for the night, and discharged him in the morning

It was said of Mr. Lincoln that he was always ready to join in a laugh at the expense of his person, concerning which he was indifferent. He always told the following story with great enthusiasm: "In the days when I used to be 'on the circuit,' I was accosted in the cars by a stranger, who said, 'Excuse me, sir, but I have an article in my possession which belongs to you.' 'How is that?' I asked, considerably astonished. The stranger took a jack-knife from his pocket. 'This knife,' he said, 'was placed in my hands some years ago, with the injunction that I was to keep it until I found a man uglier than myself. I have carried it from that time to this. Allow me to say, sir, that I think you are fairly entitled to the property.'"

And Walt Whitman: And in the midst of that pandemonium, infuriated soldiers, the audience and the crowd, the stage, and all its actors and actresses, its paint-pots, spangles, and gas-lights--the life blood from those veins, the best and sweetest of the land, drips slowly down, and death's ooze already begins its little bubbles on the lips.

Today, from each and all, a breath of prayer--

a pulse of thought,

To memory of Him--to birth of Him. ["Abraham Lincoln, Born Feb. 12, 1809," by Walt Whitman]

So may it be. Amen.

The Rev. Harold E. Babcock