The Perfect Tribute

The Perfect Tribute

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Andrews This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and
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Title: The Perfect Tribute
Author: Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews
Release Date: July 6, 2004 [EBook #12830]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
[Illustration]

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE BY
Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews
1908

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 travellers 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 slouchingly 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 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 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 could see to it that the words were real and were
short; 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 carelessly in a
zigzag. 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 better material.
But Lincoln, with 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