The Perfect Tribute | Page 3

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
settled 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 unmistakable 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 had 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
sentence. 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
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 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 applause 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 President.
"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