“Of the People, by the People, for the People…”
After breakfast the next morning, around nine o’clock, Lincoln returned to his room to complete his remarks, accompanied by his private secretary John Nicolay, who stayed with him while he wrote and recopied the address in pencil.
The president had about an hour to work, since the formal procession to the cemetery was scheduled to begin promptly at ten o’clock. He had followed his lofty opening sentence—which rang with phrases such as “a new nation, conceived in Liberty” and “dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal”—with a scene-setting section that outlined the challenges and defined the purpose of the day:
“Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so 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 that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.”
Lincoln knew, however, before he took his place on horseback in the procession, that the epic nature of Gettysburg, of the war, of the cause of the Union, would make it truly difficult to do justice to the men who fought at places like Little Round Top and Seminary Ridge. He wrote next:
“But, in a large sense, we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.”
The president, who paid attention to cadence, language, and delivery, likely collected his thoughts and mentally reviewed his remarks as he awaited the start of the procession under a bright November sky in which “the sun shone out in glorious splendor,” according to one Gettysburg resident. Was it humility or earnestness that had prompted him to craft the next passage in his speech? “The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here,” he wrote—a phrase among the most ironic in all of American history considering that Lincoln’s speech would become one of the most memorable orations ever—“but it can never forget what they did here.” The crowds pressed closer, eager to shake his big gauntlet-clad hands as he reached down from his perch in the saddle, but Lincoln did not seem to mind. Nicolay noted that the procession marshals “had some difficulty in inducing the people to desist and allow him to sit in peace upon his horse.”
The presidential procession finally wended its way to the cemetery and arrived at the platform at about eleven o’clock; Everett, the featured orator, arrived a half-hour later, without apology for keeping the president waiting
When Everett began his speech at noon, he reviewed much of the battle, day by day, pointing out exactly what soldiers did here, impressing the audience and holding its attention rapt with his rich, sonorous voice and his command of the subject matter. When he finished the crowd cheered and the band played.
The main event concluded, people grew restive awaiting the next component of the program—Lincoln’s “dedicatory remarks.” Ward Hill Lamon, as grand marshal, introduced “my friend, the President of the United States.” Lincoln rose and stepped slowly to the front of the platform. One observer noted that he moved “with his hands clasped behind him, his natural sadness of expression deepened, his head bent forward, and his eyes cast to the ground.” Ohio journalist Robert Miller reported that he “never before [had] seen a crowd so vast and restless, after standing to [sic] long, so soon stilled and quieted.” Men in the audience removed their hats, Miller wrote, “and all stood motionless to catch the first words he should utter.” Lincoln stood silent in this position for a few seconds, then pulled a sheet or two of paper from his pocket, in sharp contrast to Everett’s text, which had required a stack of pages.
The president adjusted his spectacles, and in “a sharp, unmusical, and treble voice,” but one that resonated with strength and clarity, began to speak to the thousands gathered before him and the world beyond.
* * *
YEARS LATER, NICOLAY RECALLED the audience’s reaction to Lincoln’s words.
The throng was expecting the “mere formality” of the cemetery’s official dedication, a “few perfunctory words.” After all, it was Everett who was supposed to deliver the “thought and feeling of the hour.” Lincoln was there as a “mere figure-head.” As a result, he recounted, “they were therefore totally unprepared for what they heard, and could not immediately realize that his words, and not those of the carefully selected orator, were to carry the concentrated thought of the occasion like a trumpet peal to farthest posterity.”
Lincoln’s 272-word oration took less than three minutes; some spectators said he barely exceeded two. He spoke with conviction and authority, his delivery rhythmic, his inflections expressive. From the strength of his opening—“a new nation, conceived in liberty” and “all men created equal”—to his conviction that these soldiers gave their lives so that “their nation might live,” to his belief that no speech could properly “dedicate, consecrate, or hallow” this ground since the “brave men, living and dead” had already “consecrated” it beyond any measure, he paid tribute to the soldiers who had fallen and the principles of the nation’s founding.
Then, Lincoln launched into the powerful main theme and memorable conclusion to his speech, the responsibility of all Americans to carry on the work of those who had given their lives at Gettysburg:
“It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far nobly advanced. It 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 gave the last full measure of devotion—that 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 the government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
* * *
LINCOLN CONCLUDED SO QUICKLY that many in the crowd were caught unaware. A photographer was still fumbling with his camera and tripod setup when the president returned to his seat. One observer later recalled “that there was surprise that his speech was so short.” Lincoln’s brevity may explain, at least partially, why history is replete with contradictions about the immediate reaction of the 15,000 to 20,000 people in attendance, and just as unclear about the countenance of the president and those around him on the platform when he had concluded his remarks.
In the most matter-of-fact way, assistant personal secretary John Hay—his in-the-moment account differing dramatically from Nicolay’s recollection written years later of a “trumpet peal to farthest posterity”—wrote blithely in his diary: “The President, in a fine, free way, with more grace than is his wont, said his half dozen words of consecration, and the music wailed, and we went home through crowded and cheering streets.” Hay saw no reason to elaborate: “All the particulars are in the daily papers,” he wrote.
And indeed, there are contradicting reports about the entire speech. Some attendees would say that Lincoln barely glanced at his notes; others, that he carefully read every word. A few personal accounts of those on stage say he was unhappy with his remarks and the audience’s reaction to them, and that some on the platform—including Everett—believed the speech was a failure; yet other recollections insist that Lincoln believed he had accomplished his goals and, his trademark modesty notwithstanding, was more than satisfied with the results.
As for the audience, reports range from reactions of unbridled enthusiasm to total silence, and perhaps in a way, both responses would have been a testament to the power of Lincoln’s remarks. There are far too many reports of the deep emotions the president’s remarks elicited to discount or doubt them, but it is not hard to believe that those emotions were expressed in different ways. Cheering was one way to acknowledge agreement with and enthusiasm for a speaker’s words and the emotional power of his message, but thoughtful reflection—even stunned silence—especially at a cemetery dedication, was another. Gettysburg was a place where thousands had died and thousands more had suffered; its bloodstained ground had been consecrated by Lincoln, regardless of the lines in his speech claiming this was impossible. This battlefield was sacred ground, and as much as uproarious cheering is out of place in a church, even after an inspirational sermon, so, too, might such a display have seemed inappropriate to the thousands in the crowd.
“It was a sad hour,” said a Gettysburg man. “Any tumultuous wave of applause would have been out of place.” Reporter W. H. Cunningham maintained that Lincoln’s words were met only with total silence and that he heard “not a word, not a cheer, not a shout.”
Tough men were moved to tender reflections. One Union army officer, who had been wounded at Gettysburg, was brought close to tears during Lincoln’s speech, realizing that the audience stood “almost immediately over the place where I had lain and seen my comrades torn in fragments by the enemy’s cannonballs—think then, if you please, how these words fell on my ears.” For him, and for many others, Lincoln’s words “an immortal dedication” had a lasting and profound spiritual impact.
Another army captain sobbed openly, according to a reporter who saw him, and “lifted his eyes to heaven and in low and solemn tones exclaimed ‘God Almighty, bless Abraham Lincoln.’” Another officer, when Lincoln uttered the phrase “but it can never forget what they did here,” lost all restraint, and “burying his face in his handkerchief, he sobbed aloud while his manly frame shook with no unmanly emotion.” A minister at the commemoration recalled clearly twenty-five years later that Lincoln’s words cast a spell over the audience. “The great assembly listened almost awe-struck as to a voice from the divine oracle,” he said. Congressman Isaac Arnold from Illinois, a strong Lincoln loyalist, commented on his mesmerizing charisma and magnetism: “The vast audience was instantly hushed, and hung upon his every word and syllable.”
While accounts of the audience’s specific response to Lincoln’s speech vary widely—the size of the audience almost guaranteed that those further from the stage would be unable to hear him—almost no one disputes that the president’s words had a profound impact on much of the crowd in a way far beyond intellectual approbation. Whether attendees cheered, wept, or reflected in silence, Lincoln had touched a deep and patriotic chord in the thousands who heard him speak, and the power of his words, printed in newspapers across the country, would soon evoke a wellspring of passion and feelings from millions across the country.
The speech convinced an Ohio journalist that “Abraham Lincoln, though he may have made mistakes, is the right man in the right place.”
* * *
IN FEWER THAN THREE hundred words, President Lincoln had accomplished so much.
In one fell swoop, he had linked the current great struggle between North and South—at its root, a war to end slavery—to the nation’s founding documents and the principle of human freedom and equality. In the speech’s brevity lay its genius; in under three minutes, Lincoln had rendered indissoluble the sacrifices of those who had given their lives at Gettysburg to the principles espoused in both the Declaration of Independence (“all men are created equal”) and the Constitution (“a government of the people, by the people, for the people”).
Without mentioning the battle itself, the words “North” or “South,” or any specific reference to slavery, Lincoln made it clear that the cause for which the soldiers at Gettysburg had given “the last full measure of devotion” was a “new birth of freedom” for America—one that no longer contained the stain, the cancer, of slavery. Their deaths had made this birth possible. The “unfinished work” that they had “nobly advanced” was now the responsibility “for us the living” to dedicate ourselves to: completing the “great task remaining before us” was the best and only way to honor their memories, the only way to assure that “these dead shall not have died in vain.”
In the view Lincoln had held for his entire adult life, the Declaration and the Constitution provided clear guidance. It was not the documents that were flawed, but the men—then in the eighteenth century and now in the nineteenth century—who had interpreted them too narrowly. The Declaration’s contention that “all men are created equal,” and that all are thus granted by the Creator the unalienable rights of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” was a clear testament to the founders’ ultimate intent and enduring vision that slavery would disappear from the American landscape and the American psyche. That it had yet to do so was not a shortcoming of the Declaration but a result of the political prejudices of those on both sides who had sought to ignore or misread the document for their own ends. “All honor to Jefferson,” Lincoln had once written, who “had the coolness, forecast, and capacity to introduce into a merely revolutionary document, an abstract truth, applicable to all men and all times.”
The abstract truth of equality also applied to the Constitution; the first three words of Gouverneur Morris’s preamble, “we the people,” also, in Lincoln’s view, meant “all the people,” including blacks and black slaves.
Inherent in both documents, then, was the promise of America—equality and self-governance for all—and the sacrifices made at Gettysburg had gone a long way toward fulfilling that promise. There was no need to scrap the American experiment, to start over, but it was essential that a “new birth of freedom” emerge for the nation to endure—in the form of a union truly and fully “dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”
The formation of a new nation required more than words from Jefferson, Adams, Madison, and Gouverneur Morris; their words would have remained abstract political theory, their aspirations would have lain in tatters, if not for the sacrifices made on the battlefield. So, too, would the promise of a new birth of American freedom in a new century. Lincoln could not do it with words alone—before it was over, nearly 700,000 war dead would become part of the epic struggle to end slavery and determine the future of the United States—but the president’s words at Gettysburg had redefined the stakes and the struggle.
These soldiers, he argued, had fought and died to forever enshrine and preserve the Declaration’s fundamental principle that “all men are created equal.” They had perished to create the “more perfect union” to which the Constitution aspires.
As Lincoln had said with reverence and pained eloquence, those who rested in the cemetery at Gettysburg “gave their lives that the nation might live.”
* * *
THE FIRST INDICATION OF the full impact of Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address came from the featured speaker himself, the man acknowledged as the best orator in America, Edward Everett. On the day following the commemoration, Everett, who had accompanied Lincoln back to Washington, sent him a short note. First, he thanked Lincoln for his thoughtfulness toward him and his daughter, who was also seated on the speakers’ platform at Gettysburg. Then he praised the president for “such eloquent simplicity and appropriateness at the consecration of the cemetery.” And then, saving his highest praise for last, Everett wrote: “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.”
It would be hard to imagine a greater compliment to Lincoln. Such an acknowledgment by an orator with Everett’s sterling reputation went beyond gentlemanly platitudes or obligatory flattery. With his kind words, Everett had expressed two important points; first, that he understood the difficulty of Lincoln’s task—speaking for just a few moments following a keynote address while attempting to convey the significance of the moment—and second, that the president was successful in what he had set out to accomplish. Lincoln responded with his usual humility and graciousness. “In our respective parts yesterday, you could not have been excused to make a short address, nor I a long one,” the president observed. “I am pleased to know that in your judgment, the little I did say was not a failure.”
As the days and weeks went by, it became clear that Lincoln’s speech was anything but a failure. Those who praised it and those who condemned it disagreed politically, and disagreed profoundly on Lincoln’s conclusions, but few doubted the speech’s power and impact. Most members of the press, once they had a chance to digest Lincoln’s words, lauded his address. “The dedicatory remarks by President Lincoln will live among the annals of man,” predicted the Chicago Tribune. The Providence Journal wondered whether “the most elaborate and splendid oration [could] be more beautiful, more touching, more inspiring, than those thrilling words of the President.”
Lincoln had changed the discussion, broadened the goals of the war, moved it beyond the preservation of the Union, and even the abolition of slavery. With the Gettysburg Address, Lincoln insisted that the war between North and South was an epic struggle being fought for the bedrock principle that underscored the birth of the American republic four score and seven years earlier: equality. Two years after the speech, a man who knew something about language and rhetoric, Ralph Waldo Emerson, predicted that Lincoln’s address would “not easily be surpassed by words on any recorded occasion.” It was perhaps the first prophecy that accurately reflected how history would ultimately judge the Gettysburg Address.
After Lincoln was assassinated on April 14, 1865, Charles Sumner, the fiercely antislavery U.S. senator from Massachusetts, eulogized him in Boston, and pointed out: “The inevitable topic to which he returned with most frequency, and to which he clung with all the grasp of his soul, was the practical character of the Declaration of Independence in announcing the liberty and equality of all men.”
For Lincoln, Sumner declared, these concepts were not merely idle words, “but substantial truths, binding on the conscience of mankind.”
* * *
IN THE DAYS FOLLOWING his Gettysburg remarks, Lincoln fielded several requests for copies of his speech. David Wills asked for a copy to place in the official correspondence and papers for the cemetery dedication project. To comply, Lincoln compared the version of the speech he had delivered from the platform at Gettysburg with the Associated Press report as it was printed in many prominent newspapers. As Nicolay explained, he then added his “own fresh recollections of the form in which he delivered it,” and produced a new “autograph copy—a careful and deliberate revision which has become the standard and authentic text.”
Nicolay believed Lincoln lettered at least “half a dozen or more” copies, more than any other document Lincoln wrote, recopying “with painstaking care to correspond word for word with his revision.” Any variations were purely accidental and “against his intention.” Some of those copies ended up in private hands, and Lincoln apparently retained at least two, including the original handwritten version he held at the podium at Gettysburg—the so-called battlefield copy—and a second handwritten copy he inked after the cemetery commemoration.
Eventually, those handwritten copies, part of Lincoln’s papers, found their way into the hands of his secretaries, John Nicolay and John Hay—loaned to them by Lincoln’s son, Robert Todd, in 1874, as part of their efforts to write a massive biography on Lincoln and to coedit the sixteenth president’s collected works. By the time their work was published in the late 1880s, Nicolay and Hay acknowledged that Lincoln’s speech was “exquisitely molded,” so much so that “the best critics have awarded it an unquestioned rank as one of the world’s masterpieces in rhetorical art.”
Decades later, in 1916, the Hay and Nicolay families jointly donated the two copies of the Gettysburg Address to the Library of Congress; construction of the Lincoln Memorial was under way in Washington, and plans called for the speech to be engraved on one of the monument’s walls. Accuracy, therefore, was essential.
But how the families had retained possession of these copies, how the copies were theirs to donate in the first place, remained a mystery, one that included the reappearance of the original battlefield copy that had been feared lost, uncomfortable allegations of theft, and embarrassing questions between the Nicolay and Hay heirs.