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Show 1J Abraham Lincoln as ' Viewed By Ogden Writer Jill (A Leaf From Memory's Scrap-book). iL jj A hundred and seven years ago to- $ day Abraham Lincoln was born in the , 'I state of Kentucky. The Saviour ol " I mankind, and this I say reverently ' I and with measured words, though I iborn in a stable was yet more pleasantly pleas-antly surrounded. Abraham Lincoln i grew to manhood in an atmosphere . ,, calculated to blight even the com- . ; nionest aspirations to future useful- .. I ; ness. Tho voiceless Sphynx of Des- j tiny found him and ordained him the & I redeemer of a nation and finally SJ '' crowned him with a martyr's diadem. 4 It was my fortune several times to "J liave been in the immediate presence J 3 of the great Lincoln, and on one oc- iJ casion to have felt his palm across l$a my own, and that right hand of mine jpJSra was thereby exalted, whatever may &$ have happened to it later on. The jiH years have been many since then ram and bewildering the labyrinths Ega through which their way was laid. ra But here and there in memory's gal- BEttS lory along the route shine pictures of k9 mdient expression, and hero and bH there shine some with added luster, wBk such as that of Abraham Lincoln. His Wm ;icture seems to lean out of the can- vas asking for recognition, and will H not be denied. H Abraham Lincoln was the gift of M America but now he belongs to the m wliolo world. His first home was a M cradle of straw but his last one is a M shrine. When the wings of the Hght- M nings carried tQ our homes the story 1 of his "pitiful death they were wet m uith the consecrated tears of a na- I was only a half grown man in the H far distant state where I was born, H and it was my second year at a New H England seminary when the storm H broke that came near destroying our H country. There, among our books, H and when the robins were calling to H their mates among the budding leaves H of spring, we heard the bugles call H for seventy-five thousand men to gath- H er in Washington to protect the Cap- H itol against invading enemies. All H of ray class, physically able, respond- H cd and recruited a whole company in- B eluding the officers from corioral up, H except the captain, and all were less than twenty-five years of age. H Soon we were on our way to Wash- H Ington, but the tearful partings, the H last embrace, the repressed expres- slons of affection that could find no H voice we will pass over being too paluful for recital here, but the crowd-H crowd-H ed wharfs and railroad stations, the I music of the bands, the salvoes of ar- tillery, tho inspiring words of the H oialor, tho lavish profusion of flowers I from the white hands of beauty I these followed us along the way, and H there was no night. 9 Arrived in Washington we deploy- ed along Pennsylvania avenue where H outside the curbings the multitudes had gathered to witness the uuusual I scene, the President came down from B the White House to greet these fledg- lings that had come to help him. Dur-H Dur-H ing the campaign of the election that I made him President I had seen his I picture many times in the papers, and I some were caricatures by artists who I did not know him then as they after-I after-I ward did, and they finally became I ashamed of themselves But now the I real living man was walking slowly I down the company line and my eyes I were ravished with the sight, for 1 I had learned to love him before I saw I him, because of the enemies he had -n i r rl o I There he stood or slowly walked I i before us, shaking each one by the I f hand and in a level voice speaking I to each a pleasant word of advice and admonition, and I have not forgotten the words he Bald, no one ever could. He reminded us that we wore raised in New England where we hart been 1 taught the sacredness of other peo- I pie's property, and now we were go- II Ing into disloyal states to help re-I re-I deem the flag of our country, but the II people we should meet there were net II our enemies, they were of our own l kith and kind, but for the time being If had become politically demented and If forgotten their duty to their country, It and their persons and property should llr be held sacred while in our keeping II and at our mercy, except In battle or II under the orders of higher officers. If In a few days we were in the bat-II bat-II tie of Bull Hun where my young eyes II for the first time saw the white face II of a dead person, or one struggling 91 in the agonies of death, or heard the III chilling neigh of wounded horses. r But one gets used to these though It one carries through life tho impres-l impres-l sion of those harrowing scenes. But li this leaf from the scrap book of mem-I mem-I ory has to do only with the fhst time I I raw the grent Lincoln, and I wish I to close this page of reminiscence with the tribute that Tom Taylor of 'London Puck pays to the immortal I ' martyr. Tom Taylor "was editor and I ' artist on Puck and one of the bril-B bril-B liant men of England. H , Puck hated Lincoln and so did the I ' aristocracy of England, and had it not H have been for Queen Victory, God V bless her, and John Bright, England M -would have recognized the Southern H IConfederacy. Tom Taylor had car-H car-H tooned Lincoln in the most devilish 9 fashion that human ingenuity could jS suggest. But when the Confederate M 'flags were furled and the Angel of H Pence was alluring hearts so recently rat bitter with hate, and words of mercy M were on his lips he was stricken down W Tiy the bullet of the assassin, and the H -whole world was in tears, Tom Tay-$9 Tay-$9 lor relented and poured forth a soul-H soul-H -Jul apology for the hurts he had in-31 in-31 ' lllcted. Strange Indeed are the ways M of Providence or accident, whichever M ' ay one looks at It The night that the President was assassinated at II , Ford's theatre in Washington "Our ;d , American Cousins" was being played m ' and Tom Taylor wrote that play twen-jS twen-jS years before. Hero is Tom Tay-m Tay-m lor's pitifully beautiful apology: S You lay a wreath on murdered. Lln- M coin's bier, M , You, who, with, mocking pencil, 9 I wont to trace H Broad for the self-complacent British H I sneer, I His length of shambling limb, his H i furrowed face. B His guant, gnarled hands, his un- l I kempt bristling hair, a , I His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at K 1 ease, 91 The lack of all we prize as debonair. nij L Of power or will to shine, of art to "My please. You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step as though the way were plain, Reckless, so It would point its paragraph, para-graph, Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain. Beside this corpse that bears for winding sheet The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, Between the mourners at his head and feet, Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you? Yes, he had lived to shame mo from my sneer, To lame my pencil, and confute my pen, To make me own this hind, of Princes peer, This rail-splitter, a true-born king of men. My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, Noting how to occasion's height he roBC, How his quaint wit made home truths seem, more true, How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows. How humble, yet how hopeful, he could be; How, in good fortune and in ill, the same; Nor bitter In success, nor boastful he. Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. Ho went about his work such work as few Ever had laid on head and heart and hand As one who knows, where there s a task to do, Man's honest will must Heavens good grace command. Who trusts the strength will with the burdon grow, That God makes instruments to work His will, " K but that will wo can arrivo to know, Nor tamper with the weights or good and ill. So he went forth to battle on tho side That he felt clear -was Liberty s and Right's, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied His warfare with rude Natures thwarting mights Tho uncleared forest, tho unbroken Bo11' t- i The iron bark that turns the lumberer's lum-berer's axe, The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's boat-man's toll. The prairie, hiding the mazed wan- derer's tracks. The ambushed Indian and the prowling prow-ling bear Such were the needs that helped his youth to train; Rough culture but such trees large fruit may rear, If but their stock be of right girth and grain. So he grew up, a destined work to do, And lived to do it; four long-suffering years: Ill-fate, ill-feeling, Ill-report, lived through, And then he heard the hissings turned to cheers. The taunt to tributes, the abuse to praise, And toolc both with the same unwavering un-wavering mood; Till, as he came on light, from darkling dark-ling days, And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood. A felon hand, between the goal and him, Reached from behind his back, a trigger press'd And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest. The words of mercy were upon his lips, Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men. The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, Utter one volco of sympathy and shame: Sore heart, when it at last beat high! Sad life, cut short just as its triumphs tri-umphs came. A deed accursed! Strokes have been struck before By the nssassln's hand, whereof men doubt If more of horror or disgrace they bore: But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out. Vile hand that brandest murder on a strife, Whafer its grounds, - stoutly and nobly striven, And with a martyr's crown crownest a life With much to praiso, little to be forgiven. A. S. CONDON. February 12, 1916. |