FEINBERG/ WHITMAN LITERARY FILE Prose "Death of Abraham Lincoln" [1879]. Box 33 Folder 9in that quiet. Cautious persons had feared some mark'd insult or indignity to the President-elect—for he possessed no personal popularity at all in New York city, and very little political. But it was evidently tacitly agreed that if the few political supporters of Mr. Lincoln present would entirely abstain from any demonstration on their side, the immense majority, who were any thing but supporters, would abstain on their side also. The result was a sulky, unbroken silence, such as certainly never before characterised so great a New York crowd. Almost in the same neighborhood I distinctly remembered seeing Lafayette on his visit to America in 1825. I had also personally seen and heard how Andrew Jackson, Clay, Webster, Hungarian Kossuth, Filibuster Walker, the Prince of Wales on his visit, and other celebres, native and foreign, had been welcomed there, at various times—all that indescribable human roar and magnetism, unlike any other sound in the universe—the glad exulting thunder-shouts of countless unloosed throats of men! But on this occasion, not a voice—not a sound. From the top of an onmibus, (driven up one side, close by, and block'd by the curbstone and the crowds,) I had, I say, a capital view of it all, especially of Mr. Lincoln, his look and gait—his perfect composure and coolness—his unusual and uncouth height, his dress of complete black, stovepipe hat push'd back on the head, his dark-brown complexion, seam'd and wrinkled yet canny-looking face, his black, bushy head of hair, disproportionately long neck, and his hands held behind as he stood observing the people. He looked with curiosity upon that immense sea of faces, and the sea of faces returned the look with similar curiosity. In both there was a dash of comedy, almost farce, such as Shakspere puts in his blackest tragedies. The crowd that hemm'd around consisted I should think of thirty to forty thousand men, not a single one his personal friend—while I have no doubt, (so frenzied were the ferments of the time,) many an assassin's knife and pistol lurked in hip or breast pocket there, ready, soon as break and riot came. But no break or riot came. The tall figure gave another relieving stretch or two of arms and legs; then with moderate pace, and accompanied by a few unknown looking persons, ascended the portico-steps of the Astor House, disappeared through its broad entrance—and the dumb-show ended. I saw Abraham Lincoln often the four or five years following that date. He changed rapidly and much during his Presidency —but this scene and him in it, are indelibly stamped upon my recollection. As I sat on the top of my omnibus, and had a good view of him, the thought, dim and inchoate then, has since come out clear enough, that four sorts of genius—four mighty and primal hands, will be needed to the complete limning of this man's future portrait—the eyes and brains and finger-touch of Plutarch and Eschylus and Michel Angelo, assisted by Rabelais.[*2*]And now -- (Mr. Lincoln passing on from this scene to Washington, where he was inaugurated, amid armed cavalry, and sharpshooters at every point -- the first instance of the kind in our history -- and I hope it will be the last) -- Now the rapid succession of well-known events, (too well known -- I believe, these days, we almost hate to hear them mentioned) -- the National Flag fired on at Sumpter -- the uprising of the North in paroxysms of astonishment and rage -- the chaos of divided councils -- the call for troops -- the first Bull Run -- the stunning cast-down, shock, and dismay of the North -- And so in full flood the Secession War. -- Four years of lurid, bleeding, murky, murderous war. Who paint those years, with all their scenes? -- the hard-fought engagements -- the defeats, plans, failures -- the gloomy hours, days, when our Nationality seem'd hung in pall of doubt, perhaps death -- the Mephistophelean sneers of foreign lands and attaches -- the dreaded Scylla of European interference, and the Charybdis of the tremendously dangerous latent strata of secession sympathizers through the Free States, (far more numerous than is supposed,) -- the long marches in summer -- the hot sweat, and many a sunstroke, as on the rush to Gettysburg in '63 -- the night battles in the woods, as under Hooker at Chancellorsville, (a strange episode) -- the camps in winter -- the military prisons -- the Hospitals -- (alas! alas! the Hospitals.) The Secession War? Nay, let me call it the UNION WAR. Though whatever call'd, it is even yet too near us -- too vast and too closely overshadowing -- its branches unform'd yet, (but certain,) shooting too far into the future -- and the most indicative and mightiest of them yet ungrown. A great literature will arise out of the era of those four years, those scenes -- Era compressing centuries of native passion, first- class pictures, tempests of life and death -- an inexhaustible mine for the Histories, Drama, Romance, and even Philosophy, of peoples to come -- indeed the Verteber of Poetry and Art, (of personal character too,) for all future America -- far more grand, in my opinion, to the hands capable of it, than Homer's siege of Troy, or the French wars to Shakspere. But I must leave these speculations, and come to the theme I have assigned and limited myself to. Of the actual murder of President Lincoln, though so much has been written, probably the facts are yet very indefinite in most persons' minds. I read from my Memoranda, already published, written at the time, on the spot, and revised frequently and finally since.[*3*]Nor will ever future American Patriots and Unionists, indifferently over the whole land, or North or South, find a better seal to their lesson The final use of the greatest men of a Nation is, after all, not with reference to their deeds in themselves, or their direct bearing on their times or lands. The final use of a heroic-eminent life -- especially of a heroic-eminent death -- is its indirect filtering into the nation and the race, and to give, often at many removes, but unerringly, age after age, color and fibre to the Personalism of the youth and maturity of that age, and of mankind. Then there is a cement to the whole People, subtler, more underlying, than any thing in written Constitution, or courts or armies -- namely, the cement of a death identified thoroughly with the People, at its head, and for its sake. Strange, (is it not?) that battles, martyrs, agonies, blood, even assassination, should so condense -- perhaps only really, lastingly condense -- a Nationality. I repeat it -- the grand deaths of the race -- the dramatic deaths of every Nationality -- are its most important inheritance-value -- in some respects, beyond its literature and art -- (as the hero is beyond his finest portrait, and the battle itself beyond its choicest song or epic.) Is not here indeed the point underlying all tragedy? the famous pieces of the Grecian Masters -- and all Masters? Why, if the old Greeks had had this man, what trilogies of plays -- what epics -- would have been made out of him! How the rhapsodes would have recited him! How quickly that quaint tall form would have entered into the region where men vitalize gods, and gods divinify men! But Lincoln, his times, his death -- great as any, any age -- belong altogether to our own, and are autochthonic. Sometimes indeed I think our American days, our own stage -- the actors we know and have shaken hands, or talk'd with -- more fateful than any thing in Eschylus -- more heroic than the fighters around Troy: afford kings of men, (at least for our Democracy) prouder than Agamemnon -- models of character cute and hardy as Ulysses -- deaths more pitiful than Priam's -- Afford too, (as all history for future use is resolv'd into persons,) central figures, illustrators, in whom our whirling periods shall concentrate -- the best future Art and Poetry find themes -- and around which the whole age shall turn. When, centuries hence, (as it must, in my opinion, be centuries hence before the Life of These States, or of Democracy, can be really written and illustrated,) the leading historians and dramatists seek for some personage, some special event, incisive enough to mark with deepest cut, and mnemonize, this turbulent Nineteenth Century of ours, (not only These States but all over the political and social world) -- something, perhaps, to close that gorgeous procession of European Feudalism, with all its pomp and caste-prejudices, (of whose long train we in American are yet so inextricably the heirs) -- Something to identify with terrible identification, by far the greatest revolutionary step in the history of The United States, (perhaps the greatest of the world, our century) -- the absolute, extirpation and erasure of Slavery from The States -- those historians will seek in vain for any point to serve more thoroughly their purpose, than Abraham Lincoln's death. Dear to the Muse -- thrice dear to Nationality -- to the whole human race -- Precious to this Union -- precious to Democracy -- unspeakably and forever precious -- their first great Martyr Chief. [*5*] Nor will ever future American Patriots and Unionists, indifferently over the whole land, or North or South, find a better seal to their lesson. The final use of the greatest men of a Nation is, after all, not with reference to their deeds in themselves, or their direct bearing on their times or lands. The final use of a heroic-eminent life--especially of a heroic-eminent death--is its indirect filtering into the nation and the race, and to give, often at many removes, but unerringly, age after age, color and fibre to the Personalism of the youth and maturity of that age, and of mankind. Then there is a cement to the whole People, subtler, more underlying, than any thing in written Constitution, or courts or armies--namely, the cement of a death identified thoroughly with that People, at its head, and for its sake. Strange, (is it not?) that battles, martyrs, agonies, blood, even assassination, should so condense-- perhaps only really, lastingly condense--a Nationality. I repeat it--the grand deaths of the race--the dramatic deaths of every Nationality--are its most important inheritance- value--in some respects, beyond its literature and art--(as the hero is beyond his finest portrait, and the battle itself beyond its choicest song or epic.) Is not here indeed the point underlying all tragedy? the famous pieces of the Grecian Masters-- and all Masters? Why, if the old Greeks had had this man, what trilogies of plays--what epics--would have been made out of him ! How the rhapsodes would have recited him! How quickly that quaint tall form would have entered into the region where men vitalize gods, and gods divinify men! But Lincoln, his times, his death--great as any, any age--belong altogether to our own, and are autochthonic. Sometimes indeed I think our American days, our own stage---the actors we know and have shaken hands, or talk'd with--more fateful than any thing in Eschylus---more heroic than the fighters around Troy: afford kings of men, (at least for our Democracy) prouder than Agamemnon---models of character cute and hardy as Ulysses--- deaths more pitiful than Priam's---Afford too, (as all history for future use is resolv'd into persons,) central figures, illustrators, in whom our whirling periods shall concentrate---the best future Art and Poetry find themes---and around which the whole age shall turn. When, centuries hence, (as it must, in my opinion, be centuries hence before the Life of These States, or of Democracy, can be really written and illustrated,) the leading historians and dramatists seek for some personage, some special event, incisive enough to mark with deepest cut, and mnemonize, this turbulent Nineteenth Century of ours, (not only These States but all over the political and social world)---something, perhaps, to close that gorgeous procession of European Feudalism, with all its pomp and caste-prejudices, (of whole long train we in America are yet so inextricably the heirs)---Something to identify with terrible identification, by far the greatest revolutionary step in the history of The United States, (perhaps the greatest of the world, our century)---the absolute extirpation and erasure of Slevery from The States---those historians will seek in vain for any point to serve more thoroughly their purpose, than Abraham Lincoln's death. Dear to the Muse---thrice dear to Nationality---to the whole human race---Precious to this Union---precious to Democracy--- unspeakably and forever precious---their first great Martyr Chief. [this is the same exact page as previous one] Nor will ever future American Patriots and Unionists, indifferently over the whole land, or North or South, find a better seal to their lesson. The final use of the greatest men of a Nation is, after all, not with reference to their deeds in themselves, or their direct bearing on their times or lands. The final use of a heroic-eminent life--especially of a heroic-eminent death--is its indirect filtering into the nation and the race, and to give, often at many removes, but unerringly, age after age, color and fibre to the Personalism of the youth and maturity of that age, and of mankind. Then there is a cement to the whole People, subtler, more underlying, than any thing in written Constitution, or courts or armies--namely, the cement of a death identified thoroughly with that People, at its head, and for its sake. Strange, (is it not?) that battles, martyrs, agonies, blood, even assassination, should so condense-- perhaps only really, lastingly condense--a Nationality. I repeat it--the grand deaths of the race--the dramatic deaths of every Nationality--are its most important inheritance- value--in some respects, beyond its literature and art--(as the hero is beyond his finest portrait, and the battle itself beyond its choicest song or epic.) Is not here indeed the point underlying all tragedy? the famous pieces of the Grecian Masters-- and all Masters? Why, if the old Greeks had had this man, what trilogies of plays--what epics--would have been made out of him ! How the rhapsodes would have recited him! How quickly that quaint tall form would have entered into the region where men vitalize gods, and gods divinify men! But Lincoln, his times, his death--great as any, any age--belong altogether to our own, and are autochthonic. Sometimes indeed I think our American days, our own stage---the actors we know and have shaken hands, or talk'd with--more fateful than any thing in Eschylus---more heroic than the fighters around Troy: afford kings of men, (at least for our Democracy) prouder than Agamemnon---models of character cute and hardy as Ulysses--- deaths more pitiful than Priam's---Afford too, (as all history for future use is resolv'd into persons,) central figures, illustrators, in whom our whirling periods shall concentrate---the best future Art and Poetry find themes---and around which the whole age shall turn. When, centuries hence, (as it must, in my opinion, be centuries hence before the Life of These States, or of Democracy, can be really written and illustrated,) the leading historians and dramatists seek for some personage, some special event, incisive enough to mark with deepest cut, and mnemonize, this turbulent Nineteenth Century of ours, (not only These States but all over the political and social world)---something, perhaps, to close that gorgeous procession of European Feudalism, with all its pomp and caste-prejudices, (of whole long train we in America are yet so inextricably the heirs)---Something to identify with terrible identification, by far the greatest revolutionary step in the history of The United States, (perhaps the greatest of the world, our century)---the absolute extirpation and erasure of Slevery from The States---those historians will seek in vain for any point to serve more thoroughly their purpose, than Abraham Lincoln's death. Dear to the Muse---thrice dear to Nationality---to the whole human race---Precious to this Union---precious to Democracy--- unspeakably and forever precious---their first great Martyr Chief.