t, 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
permit me to be a public speaker."

He went on in a few cordial sentences to pay tribute to the orator
of the occasion. Everett listened thoughtfully and when the chief had
done, "Mr. President," he said simply, "I should be glad if I could
flatter 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 laughed and turned to speak to a
newcomer with no change of opinion--he was apt to trust his own
judgments.

The special train which left Gettysburg immediately after the
solemnities 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 multitude, 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 had gone from
earthly war to heaven