would remain. 'Let
it hang there undisturbed,' he said, with a significant lowering of the
voice. 'Give our clients to understand that the election of a President
makes no change in the firm of Lincoln & Herndon. If I live, I am coming
back some time, and then we'll go right on practising law as if nothing
had happened.' He lingered for a moment as if to take a last look at
the old quarters, and then passed through the door into the narrow
hallway."(12)

On a dreary day with a cold rain falling, he set forth. The railway
station was packed with friends. He made his way through the crowd
slowly, shaking hands. "Having finally reached the train, he ascended
the rear platform, and, facing about to the throng which had closed
about him, drew himself up to his full height, removed his hat and stood
for several seconds in profound silence. His eyes roved sadly over that
sea of upturned faces. . . There was an unusual quiver on his lips and
a still more unusual tear on his shriveled cheek. His solemn manner, his
long silence, were as full of melancholy eloquence as any words he could
have uttered."(13) At length, he spoke: "My friends, no one not in my
situation can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this
place and the kindness of these people, I owe everything. Here I have
lived a quarter of a century, and have passed from a young to an old
man. Here my children have been born and one is buried. I now leave,
not knowing when or whether ever, I may return, with a task before me
greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance
of that Divine Being who ever attended him, I can not succeed. With
that assistance, I can not fail. Trusting in Him who can go with me and
remain with you, and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope
that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your
prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell."(14)

XIV. THE STRANGE NEW MAN

There is a period of sixteen months--from February, 1861, to a day in
June, 1862,--when Lincoln is the most singular, the most problematic of
statesmen. Out of this period he issues with apparent abruptness,
the final Lincoln, with a place among the few consummate masters of
state-craft. During the sixteen months, his genius comes and goes. His
confidence, whether in himself or in others, is an uncertain quantity.
At times he is bold, even rash; at others, irresolute. The constant
fact