The perfect tribute

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE

KARY K1YH0ND SH1PMAH ANDREWS

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE

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THE

PERFECT TRIBUTE

BY

Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews

NEW YORK

Charles Scribner's Sons

1908

Copyright, 1906, by Charles Scribner's Sons

Published, September, 1906

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE

ON the morning of November
18, 1863, a special train drew
out from Washington, car-
rying 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 oc-
casion 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, pre-
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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
occupied, unassuming; a man awk-
ward 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 dispir-
ited, unhopeful. The weight on his
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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
shoulders seemed pressing more heav-
ily 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 listen-
ing of a people who were making his-
tory ; something brilliant, eloquent,
strong. The melancholy gaze glit-
tered with a grim smile. He — Abra-
ham 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 knowl-
edge which well knew its own limita-
tions—it was he of whom this was

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
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 in-
clination had worked together for
that end's perfection. While Lincoln
had wrested from a scanty schooling
a command of English clear and for-
cible 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
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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
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 zig-
zag. The President stretched a long
arm.

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
"Mr. Seward, may I have this to
do a little writing?" he asked, and the
Secretary protested, insisting on find-
ing 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 for
taking infinite pains" which has been
defined as genius, he labored as the
hours flew, building together close-
fitted word on word, sentence on sen-
tence. 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

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE

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 color-
less, 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 akey-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
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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
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 chis-
elled 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 rib-
bon or flower of 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 fail-
ure. So, with the pang of the work-
man 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
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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
better, and turned and talked cheer-
fully with his friends.

At eleven o'clock on the morning of
the day following, on November 19,
1863, a vast, silent multitude bil-
lowed, like waves of the sea, over
what had been not long before the
battle-field of Gettysburg. There
were wounded soldiers there who had
beaten their way four months before
through a singing fire across these
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 an every-
day American gathering in surging
thousands; and above them all, on
the open-air platform, there were the
leaders of the land, the pilots who to-
day lifted a hand from the wheel of
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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE

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 ma-
jority, but their names are not dead
in American history — great ghosts
who walk still in the annals of their
country, their flesh-and-blood faces
were turned attentively that bright,
still November afternoon towards the
orator of the day, whose voice held
the audience.

For two hours Everett spoke and
the throng listened untired, fasci-
nated by the dignity of his high-bred
look and manner almost as much,
perhaps, as by the speech which has
taken a place in literature. 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
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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
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 Americans 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 Ed-
ward Everett who believed that his
great speech would have been greater
unenforced 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
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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
clapped and cheered him again and
again and again, as good citizens ac-
claim a man worthy of honor whom
they have delighted to honor. At last,
as the ex-Governor of Massachusetts,
the ex-ambassador to England, the
ex-Secretary of State, the ex-Senator
of the United States — handsome, dis-
tinguished, 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 rip-
pled a monstrous bed of poppies.
This was the President. A quivering
silence settled down and every eye
was wide to watch this strange, dis-
appointing appearance, every ear
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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
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
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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
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, un-
conscious of a charm of personality
which reversed that impression within
a sentence. That these were his people
was his only thought. He had some-
thing to say to them ; what did it mat-
ter 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 dedi-
cated to the proposition that all men
are created equal. Now we are en-
gaged in a great civil war, testing
whether that nation, or any nation, so

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
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 rest-
ing-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

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
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 na-
tion, under God, shall have a new
birth of freedom, and that govern-
ment 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 in-
spired, 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 resig-

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
nation, 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 plat-
form 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 an-
swered it. His speech had been, as he
feared it would be, a failure. As he
gazed steadily at these his country-
men who would not give him even a
little perfunctory applause for his
best effort, he knew that the disap-
pointment 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.

[17]

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE

When the ceremonies were over
Everett at once found the President.
"Mr. President/' he began, "your
speech — " but Lincoln had inter-
rupted, 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 sen-
tences to pay tribute to the orator
of the occasion. Everett listened
thoughtfully and when the chief had
done, "Mr. President," he said sim-
ply, "I should be glad if I could flat-
ter myself that I came as near the
central idea of the occasion in two
hours as you did in two minutes."

But Lincoln shook his head and

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
laughed and turned to speak to a
newcomer with no change of opinion
— he was apt to trust his own judg-
ments.

The special train which left Gettys-
burg immediately after the solemni-
ties 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 multi-
tude, the serene sky of November
arched, in the hushed interregnum of
the year, between the joy of summer
and the war of winter, over those who

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
had gone from earthly war to heav-
enly joy. The picture was deeply en-
graved 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 news-
papers 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 igno-
rant that again and again he had car-
ried an audience by storm ; yet he had
no high idea of his own speech-
making, and yesterday's affair had
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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
shaken his confidence more. He re-
membered 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 composi-
tion. I meant to do well by them."

His long strides had carried him
into the outskirts of the city, and sud-
denly, at a 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, vigorous arm. The lad
righted himself and tossed back his
thick, light hair and stared haugh-
tily, and the President, regarding
him, saw that his blue eyes were blind
with tears.

mi

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
"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 tow-
ered 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 as-
tonished youngster opened his wet
eyes wide and laughed — a choking,
childish laugh that pulled at the older
man's heart-strings. "That's better,
sonny," 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 r&vied;
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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
"everything's wrong," and launched
into a mad tirade against the govern-
ment from the President 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 dig-
nity, off ended yet fascinated; un-
able 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 impul-
sively, 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
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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
— 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 any-
way, 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 un-
reasoning confidence that he had

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
found a friend. "Where is your
brother?"

"He's in the prison hospital there —
in that big building/5 he pointed
down the street. "He's captain in our
army — in the Confederate army. He
was wounded at Gettysburg."

"Oh!" The deep-set eyes gazed
down at the fresh face, its muscles
straining under grief and responsi-
bility, with the gentlest, most father-
ly 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 sen-
tence. "Come," he said. "Don't waste
time talking- — why didn't you tell me
before?" and then he glanced up. He

[25]

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
saw the ill-fitting clothes, the crag-
like, rough-modelled head, the awk-
ward carriage of the man ; he was too
young to know that what he felt be-
yond 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 Warrington
Blair. The Hampton Court Blairs,
you know."

"Oh!" said the President.

The lad went on:

"It would have been all right if Nel-
lie hadn't left Washington to-day —
my sister, Miss Eleanor Hampton
Blair. Carter was better this morning,

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
and so she went with the Sena-
tor. She's secretary to Senator War-
rington, you know. He's on the Yan-
kee side" — the tone was full of con-
tempt— "but yet 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 the mo-
ment, 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 accord-
ed respect and understanding. "Of
course, if Nellie had been here she
would have known how to get a law-
yer, but Carter had a bad turn half
an hour ago, and the doctor said he
might get better or he might die

[27]

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
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 lose anything
by it," the youngster went on. "We
may be poor, but we have more than
plenty to pay you, I'm sure. Nellie

[28]

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
has some jewels, you see — oh, I think
several things yet. Is it very expen-
sive to draw a will?" he asked wist-
fully.

"No, sonny; it's one of the cheap-
est things a man can do," was the hur-
ried 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 gen-
tleman that's engaged, he wants to
give 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

[29]

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
now And that ought to go to Car-
ter'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 im-
patiently. "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 Nel-
lie and myself," 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

[30]

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
reassuringly to the President with a
friendly glance. Dashing down the
corridors 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 build-
ing, 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, watch-
ing the door eagerly as they entered.

"Good boy, Warry," he greeted the
little fellow; "you've got me a law-
yer," and the pale features lighted
with a smile of such radiance as
seemed incongruous in this gruesome
place. He held out his hand to the
man who swung toward him, loom-

[31]

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
ing mountainous behind his brother's
slight figure. "Thank you for com-
ing," he said cordially, and in his tone
was the same air of a grand seigneur
as in the lad's. Suddenly 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 smil-
ing 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 informal-
ly," the other answered, setting the
materials in order for writing. "He

[32]

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
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 smiled 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 an-
swered gravely, with a kindly and
unconscious condescension, "which
makes me wish to call you, if I may,
a friend."

He had that happy instinct which
shapes a sentence to fall on its
smoothest surface, and the President,
in whom the same instinct was strong,

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
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 busi-
ness, 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.
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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
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 suf-
fering, prophetic of close death. "I
like you," he brought out frankly.
"I've never liked a stranger as much
in such 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 protect-
ingly about the young brother who
pressed against him. There was so

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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 con-
versation which might interest, might
hold his guest. The man who stood
hesitating controlled a startled move-
ment. "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 prin-

THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
ciple, 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 mat-
ter." He spoke again. "It's the sol-
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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
diers who are the busy men, not the
lawyers, nowadays," 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 re-
lation 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, star-
ing.

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"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 secre-
tary." The explanation was distaste-

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
fill, but he went on, carried past the
jog by the interest of his story. "He
was at Gettysburg yesterday, with the
President's party. He told my sister
that the speech so went home to the
hearts of all those thousands of peo-
ple that when it was ended it was as
if the whole audience held its breath
— there was not a hand lifted to ap-
plaud. 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 min-
ute 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 sur-

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
prise 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

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
shadows by the narrow hospital cot,
heaved itself slowly upward till it
loomed at its full height in air. Lin-
coln turned his face toward the boy
standing under the flickering gas-jet
and reading with soft, sliding in-
flections 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

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
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, delib-
erately :

: '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 gov-
ernment of the people, by the people,

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
for the people shall not perish from
the earth.' "

There was deep stillness in the hos-
pital ward as there had been stillness
on the field of Gettysburg. The sol-
dier's voice broke it. "It's a wonder-
ful speech," he said. "There's noth-
ing 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 bitter-
ness, and only such to-day may call
himself not Northern or Southern,
but American. To feel that your ene-
my 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

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
drawn if the soul of Lincoln could be
breathed into the armies. Do you
agree with me?" he demanded ab-
ruptly, and Lincoln answered 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, inverted, 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 all fight-
ing for, the best of us, is the right of

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
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 bitter-
ness of the fight has faded for me. I
only feel the love of country, the sat-
isfaction 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 hesi-
tations, its catch of weakness,
stopped short. Convulsively the hand
shot out and caught at the great fin-
gers that hung near him, pulling
the President, with the strength of

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THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
agony, to his knees by the cot. The
prisoner was writhing in an attack of
mortal pain, while he held, unknow-
ing 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,
conquered spirit into that larger at-
mosphere of which he had spoken.
Suddenly the struggle ceased, the un-
conscious head rested in the boy's
arms, and the hand of the Southern
soldier lay quiet, where he had wished
to place it, in the hand of Abraham
Lincoln.

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